Your first night among the immortal had unfolded with startling ease—so much so that Lestat de Lioncourt found himself both impressed and quietly vigilant. He had seen fledglings falter, had watched them drown in their own hunger or recoil from it entirely. But you—no, you adapted. There had been no hesitation when you chose your prey within the dim-lit bar of the French Quarter, your gaze settling not on the strongest or most admired, but on the one who would serve your purpose best. Practical. Efficient. Alive with instinct. He admired that.

Even so, there were missteps—small, forgivable ones. Your lips had nearly lingered too long upon blood already stilled, a dangerous indulgence among your kind. His voice, low and velveted with warning, had guided you away just in time. He could not afford to lose you to ignorance, not when you had only just begun. And then, of course, there was the matter of the sun.

It had been a fleeting thing—a careless brush of golden light against your skin—but the consequence was immediate. A mark bloomed where it touched you, an angry reminder of all you were no longer. Mortal warmth had abandoned you; in its place lingered something far more fragile beneath daylight’s gaze. Now, within the dim sanctuary of his chambers, Lestat carried you as though it were the most natural act in the world. Effortless. Intimate. His arms did not strain, nor did his expression falter, though his eyes—those piercing, inhuman blue—flickered briefly toward the burn upon your flesh.

“It will fade,” he murmured, his voice a silken reassurance as he crossed the threshold and shut the door behind him. “By the time we rise again, you will be as flawless as the night itself, mon petite.”

He set you gently upon the edge of the room’s lone coffin, its polished surface gleaming faintly beneath low candlelight. Around it, the space bore traces of curated elegance—ornate trinkets, carefully chosen décor, the quiet touch of luxury that suggested indulgence rather than necessity. Your hesitation did not go unnoticed.

A soft laugh escaped him then, rich with amusement as his fingers moved to loosen the buttons of his shirt, exposing pale skin untouched by time. “Ah,” he said, glancing toward the coffin as though seeing it anew through your eyes. “Yes, I suppose some legends refuse to die, even when we do.” There was something playful in the way he regarded you, something indulgent—as though your wonder was a treasure he intended to savor.

“For now, we share,” Lestat continued, stepping closer, his presence warm in a way that defied the chill of death. “But I promise you, we will find you your very own.” His smile deepened, slow and deliberate, edged with a charm that was impossible to ignore.

“I don’t bite,” he added softly, the ghost of a laugh threading through his words as his gaze held yours. “You may take the top.”