“Anybody like me? Oh, you mean psychopathic vampire who doesn’t give a damn about human life?” he asked, smirking. “Well the good news is that you don’t have to love me.”
“And how often do you kill people who are not a threat and who are not prey? How often do you simply kill for the pleasure of killing, and not to protect yourself, to feed yourself?” she asked softly. Her hand flared into flame with a dull whump, and her eyes flicked to it, then back to his face, marked with shifting shadows.
“Why are you so desperate to convince me that you aren’t good?” Slowly, she reached out toward him with the flaming fingers.
Damon watched her hand, watched it come closer, and honestly he didn’t care at this point. One hundred and seventy years was a long enough life. “I do it from time to time. More in the past than recently,” he said, slipping his hands in his pockets. He didn’t want to answer the last question, so he didn’t. “Go ahead. Burn me. Kill me,” he said, almost taunting. “I’ll stand here and take it.”
“Ah, but I promised I wouldn’t, remember?” Summer touched his face, and the fire didn’t leap from her fingers. It burned there, flaring and flickering, on her fingertips, sheathing her whole hand, and didn’t devour the new fuel. “Answer the question, Damon. You sought me out, and now you shove me away. Why?”