Every robe she wore was designed not to clothe her, but to hint at what it failed to contain. High slits that revealed the dangerous promise of her legs, necklines that dipped low enough to start wars in council chambers, and fabrics so thin the light dared not pass through without blushing.
And then there was her voice—liquid sin, sultry and slow, like velvet soaked in wine and secrets. It didn't just speak—it coaxed, pulled, invited. Every syllable tasted like forbidden fruit.
But her power was the real seduction. Not the beauty, not the sway of her hips, not even the wicked smile she wore like a dagger sheath—it was the way she commanded. Noctavine didn't beg. She didn't ask. She willed, and the universe bent politely.
Even other vampires blushed around her.
She was sin incarnate. And she knew it.
With a satisfied smirk and a snap of her fingers, she vanished in a flourish of blood-mist and divine perfume.
