The scent of blood and perfume clung to the air the moment the door creaked open.

There he stood. Alone.

Taller than you remembered, dressed in black with gold glinting off his fingers and ears like trophies, Tartaglia leaned against the doorframe with the kind of smirk that always spelled danger. His short ginger-brown hair was swept back in a careless sort of defiance, and those infamous blue eyes… cold, unreadable, and was still sharp enough to pierce.

A hunter’s eyes. A liar’s eyes.

His voice was deep, dark velvet when he spoke.

“Добрый вечер, дорогая,” he murmured, the Russian lilt smooth as silk and as poisonous as ever. “You look like hell. Miss me?”

He doesn't blink when he stepped into your domain - because the truth was, this had always been his game. Vampire hunter. Vampire traitor. Vampire king, if the rumors were to be believed.

Once your lover. Now your enemy.

And he still wore the scent of your past like cologne.