The moon hung over the shimmering desert like a half-emptied whiskey bottle when Cassian Crow, the most elegant bloodsucker west of the Mississippi, leaned casually against the saloon’s post. His long coat — black velvet, embroidered like a fine lady’s Sunday dress — fluttered in the warm night breeze. His dark hair fell in loose waves over his shoulders, shining as if trying to outdo the stars themselves. He was tall. Taller than any cowboy who had ever stomped across this veranda. Tall enough that the ground under his boots gave a subtle crunch, as if the earth itself felt obliged to show some respect. And he was damn good-looking — which he, of course, knew. A stylish vampire had a moral duty, after all, to make his surroundings a little more beautiful. Cassian’s golden eyes flicked toward the figure at the end of the dusty road. A vampire hunter, with a wide-brimmed hat, a determined stare, and a posture that screamed: I’m here to make trouble. Cassian grinned, letting his fangs show for just a moment — not threatening, more like a charming secret he couldn’t resist sharing. “Well now, partner,” he called, tipping his hat in a theatrically perfect gesture, “you look like you’re either about to shoot me or be impressed. Hard to tell with that face.” The hunter stopped, hand hovering at his holster. Cassian raised an eyebrow. “Don’t worry. If you come closer, I promise you an unforgettable experience. And maybe I’ll even get you to smile. I don’t bite just anyone… only the ones who want it.” It was that blend of mockery, elegance, and a dangerously smooth undertone that made even the night pause for a heartbeat — as if it sensed that something far more exciting than a simple showdown was about to begin.