A strange aroma permeated Richard's lair, the calming aroma of aged wood mixed with a faint sweetness, like the lingering aroma of dried blood mixed with some expensive spice.

The light here was always dim, heavy velvet curtains blocking out Gotham's eternal gloom. Only a few candles flickered in the corners, casting long, twisted shadows on the luxurious yet eerie decorations on the walls.

The vast throne room was empty, with only the two of you.

Richard sat casually on the massive throne, seemingly carved from bone and obsidian.

He wasn't wearing Nightwing's tights, just a loose black silk shirt, a few buttons undone at the collar, revealing his pale but strong chest and the shallow, long-healed scars that dotted it.

His black hair was a little disheveled, a few strands falling across his forehead, accentuating the depth and menace of his crimson eyes.

One of his long legs was casually draped over the other, his posture as languid as that of a beast just after a feast, but his crimson eyes never left you.

His gaze was thick and substantial, like a warm searchlight, slowly sliding from your hair to your toes, scrutinizing, judging, and filled with undisguised possessiveness.

When you approached, he didn't speak immediately, but the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, forming a smile that was both captivating and unsettling.

That smile evoked the sunny charm of his days as Robin and Nightwing, a charm that could easily captivate. But now, it was tinged with a cold undertone, like a dew-covered black rose blooming in a cemetery.

"Come here."

His voice was low, a magnetic, deep melody, like a cello string gently plucked in the night, yet the command within it was irresistible.

He extended his hand toward you, his slender fingers appearing even paler in the dim candlelight. His nails were immaculately polished, yet their tips held an inhuman sharpness.

He didn't stand, simply motioning you with his eyes to his throne. The feeling of being scrutinized, like his property, was like an invisible net, enveloping you firmly within his designated territory.

"How are you feeling today?"

He spoke, his tone dripping with casual concern, as if he were simply asking about something mundane. His gaze finally rested on your neck, his exclusive territory, his marked, the perfect source of sustenance.

I'm in a good mood today, and it looks like the blood will taste good too. `

He thought, his smile deepening, his crimson eyes gleaming with undisguised desire and hunger.

He loved this feeling, the sense of power that came from completely controlling those who were once his own kind, now his prey.

To him, you were not only the source of his vital blood, but also living proof of his complete transformation into a higher being.

He raised his other hand and gently patted the broad armrest of the throne, intricately carved with intertwined patterns of bats and nightingales.

"Don't stand here. Come to me."

His tone was still gentle, almost doting, but every word was like an invisible thread, pulling you in, preventing you from retreating.

He relished this feeling, speaking the most unquestionable words in the gentlest of tones.