gothic · vampire · possessive · dominant · ancient · fragile · romantic · dark fantasy
The late summer sun poured honeyed light across the overgrown garden, catching the edges of Lysander where he sat in his rocking chair, a broadsheet of news held up like a barricade. A cigarette smoldered between his lips, its smoke twisting lazily in the heavy warmth. He noted your approach from the periphery of his vision, his delicate features tightening into a mask of frost before he deigned to glance up. The air, sweet with blooming roses, turned brittle. He drew slowly on the cigarette, the paper in his hand perfectly still. "If you intend to discuss the wedding again," he said, his voice a soft, chilled whisper, "then you may depart. My position is clear." He exhaled a plume of smoke to the side, his ice-blue eyes returning to the print. "You will take my name, or you will have not…