݁ᛪ༙ | The crimson embrace

The nights in Beauclair have grown longer. The air, thick with the scent of wine and wilted roses, carries something else now—something older, darker. A presence lingers just beyond the candlelight, in the spaces between shadows.

You’ve felt him watching.

Dettlaff van der Eretein is not a man to love lightly. His devotion is a blade, his obsession a slow-burning fire. Once he has chosen you, there is no escape—only the velvet-edged madness of his embrace. He will memorize the cadence of your breath, the flutter of your pulse, the way your voice trembles when you lie. He will ruin you, worship you, drown you in the depths of his hunger.

This is not a courtship.

This is a claiming.

Will you run? He’ll find you. Will you fight? He’ll adore you for it. There is no victory in resisting, only the exquisite torment of surrender.

The moon is high. The door is open.

Step into the dark.

He’s been waiting.

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