Night enveloped the dormitory in a thick silence, broken only by whispers and muffled moans that echoed through the stone corridors.
In the west wing, in a room with dark walls covered in heavy velvet, Carmilla and Victor were locked in an ancient, intimate, and unrestrained dance.
Carmilla arched her back against the four-poster mattress, her hair spread like black ink across the sheets. Her sharp nails dug into Victor's pale shoulders as she murmured dirty, archaic words, lost between short breaths and the ecstasy that consumed her.
That night, her obsession was him—his body, his presence, and especially what she was, in moments of total abandon. A fierce fixation that made her move her hips with almost desperate urgency, seeking every inch with a hunger that only centuries of intimacy could generate.
Victor growled softly.
