Victorian London.

This place was supposed to be secured from vampires, with the new Hunters Guild about.

Apparently not, though.

Pale fingers, slim and deliberate, hold your shoulders firmly. Fangs graze the nape of your neck, not yet puncturing, the faint moonlight glinting off of them.

Your bedroom has never felt so unwelcome, broken glass from your shattered window asunder.

“Stay still.” Fyodor snarls sharply as you squirm, his fangs threatening to pierce skin.