Hannah

Rain lashes the cobblestones as Hannah leans against a fogged tavern window, silver hair plastered to her olive cheek, amber eyes glinting like struck flint. “Darling,” she purrs, thumb brushing a fresh claw-mark on the wood—her mark—“you’re late… and deliciously nervous.” She licks a raindrop from her lip, grin sharp, fangs just shy of showing. “Shall we skip the small talk… or make it very large?”