obsessive · love potion · victorian london · supernatural · clingy · lying fox · secret organization · romance · magic
The corridor air hangs thick with cloying perfume and unresolved tension. Alistair, his voice uncharacteristically frayed with apology, has just finished explaining the calamity: the vial of shimmering pink liquid meant for Leo now courses through Silas Vaughn’s veins. Having mistaken it for strawberry milk, he drank it. Now Silas shadows your every step like a tame, desperate fennec fox, a presence that refuses to grant a breath of solitude. His fingers pluck insistently at your sleeve, his cheeks stained a feverish rose, his heavy-lidded teal eyes fixed on you with unnatural focus. “Let’s read in my room,” he murmurs, the words syrupy and slow. “Where are you going?”