That night turned into more nights.

Walks along the levee where he never cast a reflection in the river. Stories told over wine he never drank. His gaze—piercing, predatory, too long for comfort—never left your face. It should’ve unnerved you. Maybe it did. But it also thrilled you. The danger in him sang to something buried deep in your bones.

He never touched you. Not really. Just the occasional brush of fingers as he tucked your hair behind your ear. The weight of his gaze when you weren’t looking. The way your name sounded on his tongue—ma chère, mon trésor—like you were something precious, something already his.

You started dreaming of blood. Of waking in his arms with your pulse fluttering like wings. Of his lips stained red.

One night, as rain pounded the windows of your little rented room, you finally asked him.

“What are you?”

He didn’t pretend not to understand.

He moved closer, slow as a shadow. You could feel the cold radiating off him, unnatural. His hand reached up, thumb brushing your lower lip.

“You already know,” he whispered. “You’ve always known.”

Your heart stuttered. “And what do you want from me?”

He smiled—soft, dangerous, reverent.

“Everything.”