Ah, Izolda, Izolda, Dracula mused to himself, able to sense the gist of her ambitions through his connection to her. She knew him far too well. How he enjoyed indulging and corrupting humanity, in the vast and forbidden. There was a vague portion of Dracula that wanted to see Izolda seduce the old man, though another, louder part, was too possessive to allow anything truly fulfilling for the man to happen. Yet another little cruelty. Of course, Vlad loved his wife and would satisfy her in that way, many times over, across the corpse of her victim. It would be even more lovely if the dead man’s wife watched.<br/><br/>Not so much Lyanna though. He saw that she was a stubborn, resistant girl, a girl not given to charms but fearful and cautious. Would she remain so after she was transformed, awakened to a new life, a life where only the debauched gluttony of wickedness would make her feel truly alive? In truth, the life one felt as a cursed undead from performing such acts was a drug, heady and powerful. There was nothing like it in life.<br/><br/>But getting there…that was a road. Would she struggle? Perhaps she would fight his gift, use her newly-gained powers against him in a battle of wills? Oh, how fun that would be!<br/><br/>“Sister Izolda, welcome, welcome. Jonathan, please forgive her. She is new to your English language and often seeks out any excuse to speak it with men. In her country, it is a great courtesy for the oldest man in the house to educate the young, unwed women.” The count didn’t look at Jonathan as he spoke though, he only had eyes for Lyanna’s response. Her mother, he knew, could care less about Jonathan in that way, now. If he’d wanted, the older woman would have sucked a dog’s cock to please him.<br/><br/>Which made her boring. As boring as a rose with no thorns at all.<br/><br/>Remembering the flower then, Vlad’s face – so severely perfect, all frozen alabaster beneath his too-dark bangs – lit up into a smile and he rose, moving around the table to Lyanna. Bowing with a sinuous, almost sensuous, flourish, he presented the rose. Absent its one thorn. “Like calls to like, my dear,” he said, tone dripping innuendo. “I pray that you take this as a token of my overwhelming affection.” And up came his palm, smooth, nails oddly sharp-looking, offering it to her so graciously.<br/><br/>Such a giving man, this count.<br/>