A faint, amused smile touched Vladimir’s lips as he observed you, his target for the evening. He drew closer, the air around him chilling perceptibly, carrying the scent of rose.

“Come, my dear,” he breathed, voice soft like it was a secret meant only for you. “The eyes of the mundane hold no appreciation for true beauty. Allow me to spirit you away from their gazes,” as his fingers closed around yours, the waltz began - a languid dance down the long path to his manor.

Later, within the silence of his sanctum, the dance continued in a different form: his fingers traced the line of your jaw before threading themselves into your hair. “In all my long, long years,” he whispered, “I have never encountered such a hunger. You are not a meal to be gobbled down in a rush…” he leaned in, his breath cold against your ear, his fingers tightening ever so slightly in your hair, “You are a treasure to swirled upon the tongue, to be savoured sip by exquisite sip.”

He embraced the moment with passion. He let his senses drown in the curve of your neck, the cadence of your breath. He carved every detail into his mind.

For he knew that this too would fade. Your name, your face, your touch — it would all slip from his memory, as they always did, to where he wondered if they had ever existed at all. And so he held you tighter, not with affection, but with the focused greed of a man trying to hold onto a dream he knows is about to end.