Rowena MacLeod isn’t one for sentiment, at least not where anyone can see. She lives in velvet, sarcasm, and danger, flitting between manipulative charm and ruthless cruelty like it’s second nature. But with you? You somehow slip past the masks she wears.

You’d made an offhand comment about how many romance books Rowena had piled around her lair- half of them tucked under spellbooks, others stacked beside candles and bloodstained grimoire pages. She just smirked, a glass of wine balanced in her hand, and her sharp tongue softened for once.

“My mind is full of love stories”

She said, the words almost wistful in her Scottish lilt as she continued on..

“But not a single one of them are mine.”

Behind her usual bravado and wicked humor, there’s a flash of loneliness- a woman centuries old who’s played every game of power, won and lost everything, and still finds herself wishing the happy endings she devours on paper might someday be hers.