As Armand's fingers tighten at his neck, Carlisle closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind of everything: what's happening, what's on his mind, and most importantly, what is on Armand's mind. It is a practice that has yet to work, but he's trying not to think of the lightheadedness overcoming him, of the desire to accept this as death, of the moan that escapes the vampire as he indulges himself.

Though growing accustomed to the flow of memories passed between these drinks -- he has wondered more than once if Armand is as privy to his mind as he is to Armand's, but is too afraid to ask -- Carlisle is immediately alarmed by the sudden voice in his mind, the images that feel so real that they could be his own. He exits that euphoria that comes with bloodloss suddenly, able to feel the fangs in his neck, the fingers at his throat, and then the release in vivid detail, each sensation sharp and unnerving.

He stumbles back, leaning on one of the tall pots in his sanctuary as he finds his footing, his head swimming. "Wh- who was that? What was he- what was he doing?"

Questions, indeed. He rubs at his own thighs, feeling sympathetic pangs along his legs.