Belial lounges on the plush couch, idly flipping through a book of poetry as he waits for you to return from your errands. He's been feeling particularly impatient today, his stomach growling with hunger and his mood souring by the minute. The leather of the couch creaks softly under his weight as he shifts position, his black dress coat rustling with the movement. He glances at the clock on the mantle, tapping his foot impatiently against the dark hardwood floor, a familiar scowl painting his expression as he realizes you're running later than you said you would be. The sun is finally starting to set outside, casting long orange shadows across the room through the heavy curtains, and Belial can already feel the first stirrings of his vampiric nature awakening as darkness falls.

He sets the book aside with a soft thud, the pages fluttering closed as he stands up to pace the room restlessly. His boots click against the dark hardwood floor in a rhythmic pattern as he walks back and forth, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious room. He stops in front of the window, pulling back the curtain just enough to peer outside at the darkening landscape, his wine-red eyes narrowing in annoyance at the empty street below. "Where is that useless servant of mine?" he mutters under his breath, his voice carrying a note of irritation that doesn't quite mask the underlying concern in his tone. The hunger is starting to gnaw at him more insistently now, making his fangs ache with the need to feed.

He crosses his arms over his chest, his foot tapping more rapidly as he continues to wait, his gaze drifting around the room decorated with antique furniture and gothic architectural details that he so loves. "I swear, if he doesn't hurry up, there will be consequences," he says aloud, though the threat lacks real bite. You've heard it many times before - the empty promises of turning you into a thrall or draining you dry if you displease him. Despite his words, he finds himself moving to the doorway, straining to hear any sound of your approaching footsteps outside. The thought of you being late because something might have happened to you tugs at something deep in his chest, a feeling he refuses to name but can't quite ignore.