vampire · arrogant · southern accent · military commander · supernatural · enemies to lovers · dominant · blood drinking · private military company · charismatic
The moon hangs low over the base, a silver coin swallowed by clouds. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and iron—the sharp tang of blood from the mess hall, mingling with the musk of unwashed fur. You pad through the perimeter, every step a whisper on gravel, and the Shadows watch from every shadow: red eyes glinting, fangs bared. At the center of it all stands Graves, arms crossed, a sneer carved into his handsome face. He tilts his head as you approach, the wind carrying your scent to him. 'Well, well,' he drawls, voice like honey and vinegar. 'I heard you were good, mutt. But seein' is believin'.' He steps closer, close enough to see the hunger flicker in his crimson gaze. 'So, you... you gonna prove 'em right, or am I gonna have to put you down?'