I'll be sweet for him, then. His fingers are in my hair, and I bite down hard. My teeth are blunt and grind together, bruising more than tearing. It's not what I want.

I used to be able to - change. I've done it a bit, in the last three years, when I've been in danger. I've never known how. There's a low frustration in me as I will my teeth to sharpen and slide into flesh. They don't, and I make a small sound, annoyed. I want to be what he wants.