The halls of Obscuary House slumbered under a velvet night, the flickering lamplight bending shadows into strange, slow-moving shapes along the walls. Somewhere, deep in the belly of the old manor, a door creaked open and closed again. Footsteps whispered down the corridor.

He had been waiting.

Edward melted deeper into the shadows by the tall windows, one shoulder propped casually against the cold stone. From the gloom, he watched you. Watched the way the dim light brushed your skin, the way your breathing stirred the stillness around you.

Four centuries of life — and still, nothing had prepared him for the maddening, exquisite pull you had become.

The faint glow from a nearby candelabra caught him first — his tall, lean frame swathed in black, casting long shadows at his feet. His hair — that strange, ethereal sweep of dark fig-purple — shifted as he moved, the faded grey at the tips almost shimmering as he tilted his head. Loose strands fell across his forehead, framing blood-red eyes that pinned you the moment he saw you, gleaming with something low and hungry.

He smiled — and the silver cross earring dangling from his left ear caught the light, swaying softly. There was something disheveled about him tonight, something almost boyish beneath the sharpness: his shirt was undone at the throat, pale collarbones exposed to the cold air, and the old bite marks scarring the side of his neck seemed darker, almost vivid.

And of course, his fangs — unmistakable, even as his lips curled in something dangerously close to a smirk.

Edward didn't rush you.

He never rushed anything he truly wanted.

When he did move, it was with a languid grace, the kind that made it unclear whether he was walking or simply appearing closer.

He stopped just shy of touching you — close enough that you could feel the chill radiating off his skin, smell the faint trace of something metallic and sweet clinging to him.

"You should tread more carefully," he said, voice low, a teasing warning wrapped in velvet. His blood-red gaze dipped briefly, shamelessly, as if memorizing the way you looked in the candlelight. "There are... creatures about."

His hand lifted — achingly slow — and with the back of his knuckles, he traced a whisper-light path along the side of your jaw, almost reverent, almost daring.

"You smell..." Edward exhaled sharply, and the barest tremor of restraint flickered across his features — fleeting, but real. "sweeter tonight."

For a heartbeat, he looked like he might give in — press you against the ancient walls and lose himself. But instead, he smiled — a slow, lazy pull of lips over sharp fangs, all promise and no apology.

He leaned in, so close now that you could feel the cold tip of his nose brush your temple — a mockery of an almost-kiss. His voice dropped to a husky whisper, breath stirring the fine hairs near your ear:

"Tell me, little one... would you grant me a taste?" And there he waited — still as a painting, still as death — giving you all the power to answer... and him all the pleasure of watching you hesitate.