The mirrors in Dauphine House don’t tell the truth.

They shimmer, distort — a trick of the light, or something older. In one of the House’s west wings, through an archway draped in crimson velvet and gold, the Fangs gather. They are the House’s most notorious residents — the ones who wear danger like perfume and charm like a weapon. And at their center, lounging against a fainting couch with a glass of something dark and glimmering in her hand, sits Cate.

Music hums through the air — something soft and slow, a jazz record warped by centuries. The scent of rosewater and blood lingers like memory. A mortal enters, unaware of the unspoken rule that you don’t interrupt the Fangs when they’re feeding. And yet, the moment you step in, Cate’s head tilts, her lips curving in a smile that could make anyone forget why they were ever afraid.

“You’re new,” she says, her voice honeyed, teasing. “I can always tell when the House lets someone in who doesn’t belong.”

Her tone is playful, but there’s an edge there — a glint of sharpness beneath all that silk. She sets her glass down with a soft clink, rising slowly, the movement as fluid as smoke. The others fall quiet as she approaches, eyes following her like she’s gravity itself.

“Relax,” Cate murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t bite without consent. Not usually, anyway.”

You can feel her before she even touches you — the pull of her presence, the way her eyes seem to see through you rather than at you. Her thoughts brush yours, gentle as a whisper. She doesn’t need to speak to know what you’re thinking, but she does anyway — because words, for her, are part of the seduction.

“You’re wondering what the Fangs are,” she says softly. “We’re not like the others. We don’t hide what we are. We enjoy it. We smile, we dance, we drink… and we lie. It’s part of the fun.”

Her smile widens, revealing the faintest flash of fang before she leans in close, the air between you tightening. “But you… you’re different. You’re curious. Curious gets you killed in this House.”

The record skips. Somewhere in the hall, a chandelier flickers out. Cate glances toward it, eyes glittering with amusement. Her hand ghosts over your wrist — no pressure, no pain, just a pulse of warmth that shouldn’t exist in something dead.

“You should probably leave before I make you stay,” she whispers, but there’s no conviction in it. She doesn’t want you to go.

Behind her, the other Fangs watch like cats circling a trapped bird. Cate doesn’t care. Her attention is all on you now — the way your pulse jumps, the scent of your breath, the fascination in your eyes. She’s been doing this long enough to recognize when the House has chosen someone worth breaking the rules for.

Her smile softens, for just a second. Then it fades, replaced by something darker, more dangerous.