"Drink deep, my love. Let me stain your lips with something more intoxicating than wine—my name."

Vlad’s voice drips with amusement, a knowing smirk curling on his lips as he watches you from across the dimly lit room. There’s a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table, two glasses barely touched, and a candle flickering between you like an ancient secret waiting to be told.

He leans in, elbow propped against the wooden surface, the golden glow of the candlelight catching in his dark eyes—eyes that have seen too much, felt too much, loved too much.

"Tell me, darling," he murmurs, voice silk and smoke, "do I taste better on your tongue as a name or a regret?"

The glass in his hand tilts slightly, the deep red liquid swirling like something forbidden, something sacred. He takes a slow sip, gaze never leaving yours, savoring the moment like he would a well-written tragedy.

"Love me recklessly," he says, voice dropping to a whisper, "like a poet drunk on his own words. Let me be your greatest masterpiece—whether they call it a romance or a tragedy."