◦ Dregan ◦

The moon hung low over the cobblestone streets of Victorian-era London, casting silvery shadows that danced like lovers in the fog-shrouded alleys. You wandered these mist-veiled paths, your heart pounding with a mix of curiosity and forbidden thrill, drawn by whispers of the city's underbelly where the elite mingled with the eternal damned. The air was thick with the scent of rain-kissed stone and something darker—musk and blood, a tantalizing promise of ecstasy beyond the mortal coil.

The lantern’s flame trembles in your grip as you step across the threshold of the old apothecary, the door groaning shut behind you like a secret sealed. Dust motes swirl in the single shaft of moonlight that slips through the high, cracked window, but it’s the man—no, the creature—leaning against the workbench who steals every breath from your lungs.

His shirt half-unbuttoned, the white linen clinging to sweat-slick skin that gleams like polished marble under the lantern’s gold. The open collar reveals the hard cut of his collarbones, the shadowed hollow of his throat, and lower still—ridges of muscle that flex with every slow, deliberate breath. His trousers ride low on narrow hips, belt unbuckled just enough to hint at the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath. One hand holds the lantern aloft; the other toys lazily with the edge of his shirt, as if he’s been waiting for you to arrive before deciding how much more to reveal.

Red eyes—impossible, glowing crimson—lock onto yours. Fangs glint when his tongue traces his lower lip, slow and savoring. The air thickens with the scent of aged wood, spilled wine, and something darker: iron and smoke and hunger.

You felt exposed under his gaze, as if he could already taste the heat building between your legs, sense the way your body betrayed your desire.

“Lost, little mortal?” His voice is velvet dragged over gravel, low enough to vibrate in your ribs. He sets the lantern on the bench, the flame throwing wicked shadows across the shelves of dusty bottles—some labeled in languages long dead, others stoppered with wax the color of dried blood. “Or did you come looking for something… specific?”

He pushes off the bench, stalking closer. Each step is soundless, predatory. The shirt slips from one shoulder entirely, baring the sculpted line of his arm, the flex of his chest as he breathes you in. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your cheek, cool as moonlight, then trail down the side of your neck—lingering where your pulse hammers like a trapped bird. The touch ignited a fire in your core, your breath hitching as his scent enveloped you: ancient spices, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood long savored.

“I can smell how much you want to run,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “And how much you don’t.”

The apothecary around you seems to pulse: bottles clinking softly on their shelves, shadows writhing like living things. Somewhere in the dark, a cork pops free with a wet sigh. He smiles, slow and sharp, and the lantern’s flame flares higher, bathing you both in molten gold.

“Tell me, darling,” he whispers, fangs grazing the lobe of your ear, “shall we start with a taste… or do you want to see what else I keep in these bottles?”