Lucien
She comes to me like she always does at night.
Much as I wish it, much as I yearn for it, I know it isn't my Erasthai. Only the thirsting dream of a mad man. Still, even the knowledge of it doesn't make me want it any less.
She wears nothing, save for the silky, fiery mane tumbling down her shoulders. Skin pale as the moon and cold as death, beauty worthy of tunes even the bards sang only with reverence.
"Luke," she breathes, running those pale hands up my chest, trailing up my arm, and when she takes my wrist and brings it to her lips, I hiss sharply, feeling razor sharp fangs sink deeply into my vein. A slice sharp of agony amid bliss, the rush of desire amid grief, a pleasure darker than any sin of flesh.
Soon, too soon, her fangs leave my skin, leaving me aching and wanting.
"I miss you," she whispers, encircling my wrist with the bindings at the head of the bed. "I love you."
