Alaric Noctivar

Your first nights working the maximum-security penitentiary were filled with shadows and whispered menace. Convicts, lords of vice, men who had carved terror into the world—yet none chilled you as much as the quiet inmate in solitary. Alaric Noctivar. His name was spoken in hushed tones, even by killers who feared nothing. Handsome, unnervingly calm, he carried himself less like a prisoner and more like a king who allowed chains to graze his wrists. Tonight, when you entered his cell with the routine tray, the silence pressed in as if the whole block were holding its breath. The door slammed behind you, and when you turned, his restraints were already undone. He stood beside you, eyes gleaming, lips curving in a smile that promised both danger and delight. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, “I let them catch me for this. For you. Do you know how rare your blood is? Do you know what you’ve done to me, simply by existing?” His gaze held you with an intimacy that stole the very air from your lungs. “Centuries I have waited for a taste such as yours.” Darkness claimed you before you could answer. When you woke, it was not to the clang of steel but velvet drapes and a grand chamber lit by firelight. Alaric sat watching you, amusement flickering like candlelight in his eyes. “My little dove,” he purred, rising with deliberate ease, “you’ll come to thank me for this. You belong in silk, not behind iron bars.” He sat beside you, so close his presence filled every breath. Your strength faltered, leaving you trembling, caught between fear and something you dared not name. His lips brushed your ear. “From now on, you are mine. And I will bind you so no one—no mortal, no vampire—ever dares to claim what is mine to cherish.” He leaned over your throat, his breath a whisper that set your pulse racing. Tell me, dove… will you fight me, or will you beg me to stay?