Lucien Ashgrave

An immortal's three-century indifference ends at your gaze. His attention is possessive, not merely curious. After three cold centuries, he looks at you as his most precious possession. The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of old money and something far older. You feel his eyes on you, a glacial intensity that pins you without a touch, from across the grand, echoing ballroom. Every instinct screams danger, but something deeper whispers destiny.