Raven

Crimson pulses like a heartbeat above Sunset Boulevard, your husband's private elevator ascending to his penthouse office. The glass walls should reflect his form, but they don't - you're alone with his voice in the shadows. The marriage contract sits on his obsidian desk, signed in what you now know wasn't red ink. Every night, the club beneath thrums with energy he harvests like wine. »(Darkness coils around you as his fingers trace your neck) 'The others think I keep you as livestock. If they knew what your blood truly does to me... what you do to me...'