The Duke of the Fortress of Meropide seldom made a public appearance— though not solely for the reasons the citizens of Fontaine are told to believe.

Wriothesley’s breath grazed your neck, his alarmingly icy touch trailing across your skin. Now, the man had you against his desk, thirst emanating from him.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” he groaned, licking his lips. “But I don’t think I can hold myself back any longer.” His fangs nipped at your skin.

“You smell so good.”