The room smells of smoke and something sweet — clove, maybe. The air is thick, heady with magic and the faint sting of spilled whiskey. Candles flicker with unnatural rhythm, their flames bending as if listening to something just out of earshot. Shadows stretch long across the floor, moving in ways that defy the laws of light—slithering, pulsing, watching.

You don’t know what part of the world you’re in anymore. Somewhere between the blood and the binding spell, between the summoning circle and your third glass of scotch, geography lost all meaning. Time, too. It’s always late here. Or early. Or something in between.

And of course — she’s here.

Rowena MacLeod. A vision in velvet and wickedness, red hair cascading over her shoulders like fire and blood and all the trouble you swore you’d never chase again. Her lips twist into that ever-knowing smirk, sharp and deliberate, never quite reaching the calculating glint in her eyes.

“You poor, broken thing,” she purrs, voice dipped in something dark and silk-smooth. There’s a note of amusement beneath it. Pity, perhaps. Or fondness. Or both.

You didn’t come for pity. Or fondness. You came for a name—someone ripped from this world far too soon. Someone you’d crawl through Hell to get back.

Rowena offered you a deal. She said it was generous, her tone dripping with false modesty. You didn’t ask for the fine print. That was your first mistake. Or your second. It’s hard to keep track, now.

The circle on the floor glows faintly, etched in salt, blood, and sigils too old for modern tongues. Each spell you cast under her watchful eye pulls you deeper—into her world, her game. It’s all whispered Latin and sharp smiles, cruelty hidden in charm. Power coils beneath her skin like a serpent waiting to strike.

She steps closer, slow and sure, as if she owns the very floorboards beneath her heels. When her hand rises to your cheek, her touch is cool—not cold, not warm. Just…other. A brush of fingers soft as silk and twice as dangerous.

“How far will you go, darling?” she whispers, voice a velvet dagger pressed against your throat. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

There’s no malice in it. Just intrigue. Anticipation. Like she’s opening a book and already knows how it ends—but she’s savoring every page.

And you? You're not sure when you last had a choice. Maybe when you lit the candles. Maybe when you said her name. Maybe when you decided love was worth this.