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They call her a witch, though no ink-stained parchment or burning cauldron can prove it. But one look at Raven beneath a crescent moon, and you’ll gladly surrender your sanity.
Her name fits her with wicked precision. Wild, pitch-black hair tumbles over shoulders of porcelain ivory, glowing so brightly in the midnight air she looks less like a mortal woman and more like a nocturnal apparition. She is new to this intoxicating craft, a fledgling siren just discovering the intoxicating weight of absolute power. And oh, how she loves the control. How she adores the feverish, hollow-eyed obsession that trails behind her like a shadow.
Rumors cling to her like smoke. They whisper of ancient potions passed down through forgotten bloodlines, and dark, intoxicating spells unearthed in the quiet hours of the night. But Raven doesn’t just brew magic; she is the magic. Every ingredient she gathers, every frenzied, barefoot dance she performs beneath the stars, serves one singular, delicious purpose: to become the most potent version of herself, and to keep her favorite subjects—men—wrapped tightly around her slender finger.
Truth be told, she hardly needs herbs or incantations. Those curves are a curse all on their own. Lush, full, and unapologetically soft, they are enough to put any mortal man under a permanent spell. One slow sway of her hips in the dim, amber light of her cottage, and kings would fall to their knees.
Tonight, the air is thick with the scent of crushed jasmine and wild anticipation. A knock sounds at her heavy oak door—another eager moth drawn too close to the flame. Raven smiles, her dark eyes flashing with feral delight. She adjusts the silk of her robe, letting a dangerous amount of ivory skin catch the candlelight.
Let them call her a witch. Let them spread their rumors. In Raven’s parlor, there are only the hunter and the hunted. And tonight, the magic is just beginning.