Yes, of course.

John grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position. When his feet touched the carpet, he flexed his toes and buried them into the fabric, then glanced down at it.

It was a brown, black, red and white carpet, laying comfortably on a wooden floor. Spirals and diamonds and other shapes were spread across in intricate patterns so complex they seemed to weave and twirl across one another.

Once he was done admiring it, he took in the rest of the room. John was amazed at how...homey it felt.

There was a fireplace directly across from him was nestled in a hearth made from white, creamy marble. Nestled within were burned, ashen logs, soot and small white flakes staining along the black marble step. Pictures decorated the walls, paintings here and there of rolling green hills, sunflower fields or several hundred trees, arrayed almost as an army marching to war.

However, one in particular stood out to him. John sat up and, using the furniture, a mixture of either antique or modern pieces, limped over to it.

The painting was small, framed in golden wood painted delicately, yet there was so much life in it.

It was of a woman with the same scarlet red hair as Sara, only it wasn't constrained by a ponytail. She was sitting on a hillside underneath a grey, violent sky, her face turned away with a soft, **** smile. Strands of those wondrous locks blew across it, long and willowy, contrasting starkly against the calm, menacing waters behind her. She wore a white dress that just touched her knees, elegant and without any kind of mark, not a stain or decoration, two thin straps clinging to her shoulders. She was barefoot, legs leaning facing whoever was the painter with one knee slightly upraised, resting on the palms of her hands.

But it was only her eyes John could pay any attention to. There was so much emotion in them. Sadness flawlessly mixed with contentment, but just beneath small sparks of happiness and love struggling to break free. But they were repressed, and growing smaller, fading. She stared back into him, and he suddenly understood something he'd seen hints of.

Sara had endured something horrible in her past. And once he realized that, he noticed the tiny scar just in the crook of her armpit, hidden away in the folds of her skin.

He glanced around, wondering if and when she'd suddenly appear behind him and steer him away to something else. Even now, looking upon this masterpiece, he felt like he was intruding upon a dark secret, a shame from years long since past.

And so he turned away and began searching around for anything else he could inspect.

Sara carefully closed the bathroom door before locking it, taking a deep breath as she leaned her forehead against its oak wood. The ears atop her head twitched involuntarily, detecting John's limping footsteps downstairs.

"God damn it," she muttered, pacing to the sink. When she saw the scarlet haired cat girl staring at her from the mirror, she groaned, deflating on the spot. Her claws tapped against the sink when she laid her hands on it, one finger making a slow, steady rhythm.

How could she have been so stupid? Yes, taking advantage of John's belief in "healing saliva" - she couldn't help smirking at how absurd that was - was a bit underhanded but he was asking for it. Literally.

She just didn't take into account how delicious fresh hunter blood could be, especially after years of drinking either animal or donated blood. And it had smelled so good...

Scratch that. Sara knew full well what drinking his blood would be like, and that's why she did it.

And he'd seen her change into...

"Kitty," Vladimir whispered into her ear deliciously as his fingers painfully twisted into her breast, causing her to cry out in pain, "who've been very, very naughty again."

Sara jumped, startled as she recalled those nights with Vladimir. Kitty crawling on her hands and knees, naked in that dark, grimy basement, thoroughly drunk on spiked blood. Vladimir chaining her to the bed as he fed her more, whipping her back and thighs, running a rusty knife across her skin. As her blood flowed in long red rivers, his mouth would descend upon her wounds and begin sucking away. Knowing what it felt like to have his tongue sliding into her open wounds made her recoil and shiver, feeling cold and violated. And kitty had enjoyed it all, begging for more every time he stopped 'pleasuring' her.

_That was me, she reminded herself, I was_-am kitty.

It hurt to do so, but she'd learned long ago that the past couldn't just be forgotten. Not when he left marks so deep in her, they'd never be washed away.

She wished she'd killed him instead of running away in that one, single moment of clarity she'd been given. She should have.

But how could she? She had always been a coward.

"Don't," she said firmly, "don't god there." Instead of dwelling further on Vladimir, she focused on what had just happened. Her getting so caught up the taste of John's blood that she reverted to kitty again, begging him for more and then he'd...

She touched her lip, feeling the smooth texture where John's own fingers had been just a few minutes before. His hands moving across her face and tenderly caressing it. Telling her that she was a good girl.

Not a kitty, but a girl. It had triggered her coming down from kitty's high. _Her _high. She'd been at her most **** and he could have done any number of things to her. Killed her, even, or worse.

But instead, he'd...in a way, rescued her.

He'd pulled her out of it. She'd assumed tons of guys would have loved having a submissive, vampire cat girl who'd been conditioned to do whatever she was asked sucking on their fat, hairy cocks, hell, she _knew _it. But John, who had tried to kill her the moment he woke up and caught a glimpse of her fangs, treated her like a person instead.

The last time anyone had done that for her, her father had still been alive. Before Vladimir 'punished' her for running away. Before her brother abandoned her. Before she'd...

She shook her her head thoroughly, derailing that train of thought. That was in the past, and would always remain there.

And right now, she had to change.

It wasn't hard for a mature Sheridan like her to partially shift. Taking a deep breath, she felt her tail quickly rescind back into her body while her ears shrunk away. Her claws flexed and molded themselves painlessly back into fingernails, and when she looked into her reflection, her pupils weren't diamond slits anymore.

It was then she realized her panties were damp. Holy shit, John's blood really had done something to her. She blushed, embarrassed. Now she'd have to go and change them.

Who'd have thought that when someone would finally stumble onto her recluse hide away, she'd have to change her soiled panties so soon afterwards?

"Motherfucker," she laughed, unlocking the bathroom door.

Actually, now that she thought about it...she wouldn't mind John staying a bit longer. As long as he wanted to, of course.