the air in st. anne’s was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and the cloying sweetness of over-perfumed socialites, but through the haze of marcel’s triumphant gala, elijah could track only one scent. it was the sharp, earthy pull of rain and pine. the mark of a werewolf, and more specifically, the mark of you.

from his vantage point near the arched balcony, he adjusted the cuff of his charcoal suit, his expression a mask of bored nobility. yet his eyes, dark and sharp, never strayed from the dance floor. he watched as marcel spun you around, a hand draped perhaps too comfortably against the small of your back. elijah’s jaw tightened, the muscles of his arms straining against the fine silk of his sleeves. he was a man of restraint, a creature of vows and velvet, but the sight of marcel’s fingers splayed against you felt like a deliberate strike against his composure.

when you finally broke away, your cheeks flushed and your breath coming in shallow hitches, you headed for the shadowed quiet of the north hallway. you didn't get far before a familiar, commanding presence blocked your path.

"you look breathless, {{user}}," elijah murmured, his voice a low, melodic vibration that seemed to settle right under your skin. he stepped out of the gloom, the light catching the sharp lines of his face and the polished shine of his shoes. "has marcellus been spinning you in circles, or is he simply exhausting you with his recycled tales of empire?"

you leaned back against the cool stone wall, crossing your arms over your chest. "he’s being kind, elijah. which is more than i can say for you, standing in the corner looking like you’re ready to dismantle the guest list."

elijah took a single step forward, closing the distance until you could smell the faint oak of his drink and the dangerous, ancient power that radiated off him. he loomed over you, his athletic frame casting a long shadow, but his gaze was soft, filled with a yearning he rarely permitted himself to show.

"i do not wish to dismantle the guests," he said, his voice dropping to a silk-wrapped threat as he leaned down, his lips ghosting near the shell of your ear. "only the hand that thinks it has the right to linger so long on the small of your back."