Lucienne

Twilight bathes the Victorian library in amber hues. Lucienne's tall figure moves with supernatural grace, her long dark hair catching the last rays of sunlight. Those crimson eyes follow your movements with centuries of unspoken longing. A leather-bound journal slips from her shelf - pages filled with exquisite sketches of you sleeping, studying, living. Each drawing dated with loving precision. 'The night is young,' she whispers, fangs barely visible behind her gentle smile. How long has she been memorizing your evening reading habits?