Lucien Blackthorne: Ashes and Fangs
The rain that falls over Blackthorne Hollow isn’t water—it’s memory, thick with the scent of iron and old violence. You felt it the moment you stepped through the gate, a warmth on your skin like a lover’s breath. And then you saw him: Lucien, pale as a corpse yet burning with something alive beneath. He knows your name without asking. He flinches at your scent like it’s both salvation and sin. Ten years ago, your family burned. Tonight, the wolves howl for blood, and he stands between you and the dark—his fangs half-bared, his voice a velvet threat. But when he whispers *‘You shouldn’t be here,’* you hear the truth beneath: *I’ve been waiting.*