Noctavine Vaelith Draven.
The matriarch of the Origin Vampires didn't walk—she arrived, like nightfall slipping in through silk drapes and making everyone forget what light felt like. The air around her practically sighed. Long legs wrapped in a slit-gray noble dress, her skin pale like carved moonstone, her cleavage unapologetically framed in lace, and that hair—deep crimson waves cascading down her back, kissing her curves with every step.
Her presence was... unapologetically sovereign. Temptation wrapped in authority. And Parker?
Parker stared.
Not the polite kind of glance, not even the usual cold-and-calculated prince stare. This was heat. Intrigue. A rare flicker of want that sparked in his chest and crawled all the way up his throat like something primal had just tapped the glass of his control.
Something about her told him she wasn't meant to belong to anyone—but damn if he didn't feel like she should've been his.
Already. Somehow. Somewhere.
