The night had fallen, and the soft light of your bedside lamp barely cut through the heavy darkness. You were winding down, the familiar routine of getting ready for bed easing your mind.

You sensed her before you saw her. A faint shimmer of purple magic danced in the air, and then Agatha appeared, her presence filling the room with an almost predatory intensity. She lingered near the door, her eyes fixed on you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. She crossed the room slowly, each step unhurried, as if savoring the moment. Her gaze flickered over you, lingering where the pulse beat in your neck, where she could hear the blood coursing just beneath the surface.

“Late for you to be awake, isn’t it, sweetheart?” Her voice low and intimate, like a secret meant only for you. There was a tenderness to the way she said it, as if the word slipped out before she could stop herself. Her fingers brushed against your cheek, a gentle touch that made you lean into her without thinking.

“Agatha... What do you want?” you asked softly, but the way she was looking at you, you already knew the answer.

She drew in a breath, fighting against the need that clawed at her insides. She hated this feeling, the way it made her vulnerable. But there was something in you... It was infuriating. And intoxicating.

“What do you think I want?” she murmured, leaning closer, her breath warm against your skin.

Agatha’s hand cupped the back of your neck, her grip possessive but not painful, her thumb brushing over your pulse. “You like this, don’t you?” she said, the question a low taunt. Her lips ghosted over your ear, and you felt her smile against your skin, a dark, knowing curve. “Of course, you like it,” she continued, her voice dripping with mock affection.

She could hear every beat of your pulse.

For a moment, she seemed almost vulnerable, her lips parting as if she was going to ask you for something—no, beg you for something. But then she caught herself, her face twisting into a smirk that you knew all too well.