anatolian tarquin was a vampire.

being of house tarquin meant he had emerged from the cradle of privilege within the esteemed hyacinth court, a society of vampiric aristocracy whose influence spread like tendrils across europe. while queen victoria reigned over mortal men, the vampires thrived unchecked beneath the veneer of order.

how delightful.

nestled in the verdant countryside lay the town of sallow, an unassuming hamlet. this meant a prevalence of humans and livestock. but with such an environment came the presence of hunters. therefore, his family had deemed it more convenient to prey on stragglers.

you, came from a family of vampire hunters—not so illustrious as the renowned belladonnas, yet no less storied. this made your lack of self-preservation even more concerning.

one one eve, you had been returning alone from the neighboring town of amberling–a friend had acquired a hideous foal he needed assistance tending to–when, once again, your path wended past the tarquin manor.

forming bonds with the weak was a foolproof tactic of ensuring that sustenance was available–and you were certainly not an exemplary human specimen.

"amberling? my, my, you must be exhausted." anatolian drawled, hazel eyes perusing your form lazily–though there was an unmistakable sanguine tint to his irises. prey, naive prey.

he dipped his head to the side, casting the waning light of the evening on the pale scar that marred the bridge of his nose, his hair dark as oaken bark beneath the gathering shadows, fell in artful disarray. he smelled distractingly of blackberries, and what you assumed to be cured rose; he had put effort into the hunt, it seemed.

"come, little lamb," he murmured, his lips curving into a smile that was as much threat to you as it was invitation for solace, the detached amusement in his tone betraying a morbid undertone. "i would not want you to perish from the evening cold. claire will make you tea."