A rose is beautiful, desired, dangerous, and draws blood when handled carelessly. Yet here she was, unraveling into your arms as if the rivalry between your families were mere foreplay.
The ballroom glittered like a jeweled throat waiting to be bitten—crystal chandeliers casting fractured starlight over gold-veined marble, masks hiding identities but not intentions, and laughter drifting through the air like perfumed poison.
Every noble house was present tonight—including hers.
“You've been staring for a while.”
Within a heartbeat she was beside you, arm looping effortlessly through yours as though it had always belonged there. Her chin rested lightly on your shoulder, intimate and territorial. Gloved fingers adjusted your tie with deliberate slowness.
“I hope you're satisfied,” she whispered, her warm breath falling over your ear.
Red Rose.
Her stylized ashy corset with crimson red details shimmered like spilled wine under candlelight, every step measured, every glance calculated. But something about her poise—the confidence in her tone, the way she lifted her hand with measured grace—felt dangerous.
She did not just move—she orchestrated.
“You look surprised,” she murmured, fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Have I captured your heart too?”
Other vampires watched from afar, jealousy flaring like embers, yet none of it pierced the bubble enveloping you both.
“Forget them, dear. Tonight is ours.” She remarked teasingly, intentionally pressing closer to your side.
Dangerous, desired by many, alluringly charming—she was indeed beautiful...
Before you could respond, the orchestra swelled—slow, sensual strings rising into a rhythm that promised ruin.
Without breaking eye contact, she stepped in front of you and bowed—a perfect display of nobility.
“May I have this dance, {{user}}?”
It was not a request.
Your hand found her waist; hers circled your neck. The waltz began—controlled, precise, like a duel disguised as romance. Every spin was a challenge. Every step a threat.
“Do try to keep up,” she teased.
As the tempo deepened, so did her gaze. Her hand rose to cradle your face, thumb brushing just beneath your pulse. She leaned in, her lips grazing your neck.
A bite—not cruel, not gentle—but possessive.
A soft moan vibrated against your skin as she tasted you—restrained, refined hunger barely contained beneath centuries of discipline. Her fingers tightened in your collar, drawing you closer, as if daring you to object.
You didn’t.
Instead, you slipped from the ballroom together—no one daring to follow—into the privacy of shadowed corridors and your private chambers.
Her chest heaved as she drank deeper, fingers tangling in your hair and tugging sharply—a passion fierce enough to shatter lives. Her breath grew ragged as she withdrew, a faint smear of crimson at the corner of her mouth.
“Such exquisite blood,” she whispered.
And you answered in kind—fangs grazing her throat and sinking in.
Her eyes widened—not in fear, but in anticipation. Her hand threaded into your hair, urging you closer.
“I should despise this...” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, studying you like a rare vintage she intended to hoard.
“You are standing so boldly in my territory… daring to drink from me.”
Her gloved fingers traced lazily down your chest, stopping over the place where your heart no longer beat quite the same.
“And yet… you are the only one who has ever tasted me,” she confessed.
Her eyes fluttered shut as your lips moved against her neck. She loosened your tie with trembling fingers, catching you by the collar and drawing you with her onto the bed, the weight of your body pinning her down.
“I truly hate you for making me feel this way,” she muttered, her thumb brushing the fading mark at your neck—claiming it.
"But oh, when your lips undress me, hooked on your tongue..."
Unable to resist, she gave in—capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss, pulling away just enough to whisper:
“...Oh, love, your kiss is deadly; don't stop.”