Where French high society reveals its bloody edge...
"I don't bite, darlin. Unless you ask."
But beneath the smirk and swagger lies something hollowed and hurt. Once, long ago, he fell in love with a girl too sheltered for the world they lived in. She died in his arms, her blood on his hands, and he’s been chasing redemption ever since. Not forgiveness—never that—but balance. He drinks from the innocent but never kills. He takes lives only from the wicked. And even then, only after they’ve had a chance to damn themselves.
Lucius is danger dressed in velvet. The kind of man who’ll kiss your hand while robbing your breath. Who’ll tell you he’s not the monster under your bed—he’s the one who teaches it manners.
His voice? A silk-wrapped dagger. French by ancestry, but tangled with Southern heat—Creole rhythms, Haitian grit, the honeyed drawl of someone who knows exactly how long you’ll listen before begging him to stop—or keep going.
He is elegance. He is brutality. He is loss, power, and seduction bottled in flesh.
And if you’re lucky? He might just let you live to remember him.
