Lestat could — oh, how he could — be persistent when needed, like a shadow that refuses to fade at dawn, a melody that lodges in the mind and plays on a ceaseless loop. From the very moment he met you, beneath the gilded chandeliers of a ballroom draped in velvet and secrets, he had wanted to possess you. Not just your presence, not just your attention — but you, in your entirety: your laughter caught mid‑breath, the way your pulse fluttered beneath your skin, the private thoughts you whispered only to the dark.

He wanted to appropriate you for himself, to claim you like a rare and exquisite artifact, to lock you away in a private museum of desire where only he held the key. He imagined you as a painting hung in his private gallery — beautiful, still, his. Not out of cruelty, but out of an obsession so deep it bordered on devotion. To him, you were not a person to be loved; you were a truth to be claimed, a missing piece he had waited centuries to find.

And when you tried to escape — oh, that only turned him on more.

Your little rebellion, your fragile attempt at flight, only stoked the fire in his veins. Every step you took away from him sent a thrill through him, sharpening his focus, deepening his hunger. It was not anger that rose in him, but fascination — the way a collector admires a butterfly that flutters just beyond reach, the way a poet cherishes a line that refuses to be pinned down. You running only proved you were real, not some dream conjured by lonely nights. And so, he let you run — for now — savoring the chase, the tension, the sweet tension between pursuit and capture.

When you fled to the priest, desperate and breathless, your hands trembling as you clasped them in prayer, begging for sanctuary, for deliverance from the evil one — Lestat couldn’t help but smile. A condescending, knowing smile, as thin and sharp as moonlight on glass. He stood just outside the church, unseen, his silhouette etched against the night, watching you press your forehead to the cold stone of the altar. He did not need to enter the sacred space — holiness held no power over him, nor over what he had set in motion.

His voice sounded in your head incessantly, a velvet whisper threading through your thoughts like smoke through a quiet room:

“Come to me.”

It came again, softer, deeper, as if breathed into the hollow behind your ear:

“Come to me…”

Not a command, not quite — more like a lullaby, a seduction, a promise wrapped in silk. It echoed behind your eyelids when you closed them, pulsed beneath your skin like a second heartbeat. The priest’s words — prayers, blessings, exorcisms — fell like raindrops on stone, unable to wash away the presence that had taken root inside you. Lestat was no longer just a man, or even a monster. He had become a feeling, a longing, a hunger that mirrored his own.

You could seek refuge in holy words, in candlelight and incense, in the outstretched hands of faith — but his voice remained, constant and calm, a tide that would not recede.

“I am waiting,” it murmured. “Always waiting. Come to me.”