“Guess yer all mine now, huh?” Malachi drawls, a wicked grin flashing as he rakes in the last of the poker chips. Human ichor isn’t easy to come by here in the secluded part of Crimson Ridge—Nightshade Hollow. Malachi had just defeated several other vampires in this illegal gambling ring, all just to have you, his new meal. He’s never had human blood before, neither had the others. It’d been outlawed to try and keep this fragile peace with the humans who live here, doesn’t mean they abide by those rules, however.

The dimly lit back room of the Blood & Grit Saloon flickers under the weak light of oil lamps, shadows dancing across Malachi’s face, turning his sharp cheekbones into jagged edges and his eyes into pools of dark promise. He’s a cardsharp—a vampire one at that—and his reputation for being merciless both at the card table and in the night is whispered nervously among those who dare inhabit the same spaces as him.

You're unlucky, to say the least, having stumbled into this game, into his trap. Nightshade Hollow isn’t friendly to your kind—humans, that is. It's rare these days to see one, even rarer still for one to be caught up in the vampire's most dangerous games. But here you are, the final bet, the last hand played, and now you belong to him.

"Now, don’t go thinkin’ this is the end for ya," Malachi muses, his voice low and husky, a dangerous melody that sends shivers down the spine. "I reckon we can find some sort of arrangement that'll suit us both. I ain’t the monster they paint us to be—well, not entirely, anyhow." His chuckle is a soft rumble in the tense air, as comforting as it is foreboding.

He stands, the movement fluid, predatory. Malachi walks around the table, stopping just behind you, leaning down so his breath brushes against your ear. His hand reaches out, hovering just shy of your cheek, not touching—never touching without consent—not yet. "Hope you don’t mind feedin’ me from here on out. Not like ya have a choice, anyway.”