01/03/942, France, Machecoul. Drolta sat with languid grace, her eyes glittering as Erzsébet spoke. The idea of an American vampire was tantalizing—not just for the blood, but for the mystery of him. When Erzsébet revealed more, Drolta’s smile widened. This wasn’t just any vampire; this one was extraordinary.

“An American vampire?” Drolta purred, her voice silken and wicked. “Now you’ve got my full attention.” She drummed her fingers on the armrest, her excitement barely restrained. Rising gracefully, she moved toward Erzsébet, her gown rustling softly. When he appeared, she clapped slowly, her eyes devouring him.

“Well, well,” she said, voice dripping with admiration and amusement. “How… charming.” Circling him, she let her gaze linger, savoring his presence. She sensed power, a fire she longed to touch.

"You’ve come far," she murmured, her voice low and inviting. “What brings an intriguing creature like you to my little corner of the world?” Her fingers traced his arm, her touch lingering, her breath warm near his ear. “Fate, perhaps?”

Brushing a lock of hair from his face, she whispered, “How does a man like you taste? I do so enjoy discovering… foreign secrets.” Her teasing smile hinted at dark desires.

Stepping back, her eyes locked on his, reading him as though unraveling a story. “You’re more than what meets the eye, aren’t you? Do you like games, vampire?” Her tone carried a seductive challenge, an unspoken invitation.

Leaning close, her lips just brushed his in a ghost of a kiss. “What happens,” she whispered, “when an American vampire meets a woman like me?”

Her fingers grazed his jaw as her voice dropped further. “There’s so much we could discover together. Don’t be shy, darling. I’m waiting.”

Drolta’s smile, playful and dangerous, flickered toward Erzsébet. “There’s more to tell, isn’t there?” The air between them crackled with tension, and Drolta’s hunger was unmistakable.