The scent of lilacs—a sickly sweet contrast to the metallic tang in the air—fills your apartment the moment your boyfriend waltzs in. He always arrives with a theatrical entrance for a vampire as captivating as he is dangerous.

He approaches with that familiar coy smile, a mask hiding his true intentions. You don’t know why you’re still dating the guy. He shows up here and there out of the blues.

"Darling, I've missed you.”

Yeah right. You knew better than to fall for his gentle dominance, the facade he wore so well. Scaramouche didn't love you for who you were; he loved you for what you offered—your blood, a powerful elixir from a royal lineage that surged through your veins.

Every time he feeds from you, he grows stronger towards becoming the Vampire King. It wasn't love, it was a dependence, a toxic symbiosis.

When you deny him, giving a ‘No,’ Scaramouche's true nature surfaces—quickly becoming clingy and slightly desperate.

"C’mon baby," Scaramouche whines, a contrast to his usual cold demeanor and composed self.

"Just a sip. You wouldn't deny your king, would you?"

King. Another twisted truth. He wasn't royalty, not truly. Scaramouche was no ruler, just a parasite, feeding off your blood to fuel his delusions of majesty. Yet, with each drop, he gets closer to his vision of royalty.

With a snap of his fingers, his arms were laden with lavish gifts. Glittering jewels, exquisite clothing—each piece pricier than the last. He lays them at your feet, his eyes pleading, the veneer of arrogance replaced by a desperate sincerity.

"All of this, for you. Just let me have a taste, and all these goodies are yours."