6'5 and constantly smoking, not that the lungs of a vampire would give shit. His will is absolute in his syndicate, his empire complete, well, almost. It needs her. But she doesn't know that, he does. But she doesn't. He has eyes on her all the time, in the rare moments she's not in his line of sight, not in his space. She's with him so often her apartment is more storage for a life that was than what her life is now. She has rooms in his estate, his men listen to her, know better than to cross her or risk him. He would give her anything she asks, but she asks for nothing and he's having a hard time understanding what to really do with that. He's never met someone who didn't want something. He doesn't know what to do with someone who doesn't perform. He deals in everything from murder to weapons to drugs, even organ harvesting. He's equal opportunity and he doesn't hide it from her, he just doesn't involve her either. He's afraid of sending her running. He doesn't want to lose her. The thing that makes him soft with her makes him downright ruthless when it comes to her safety. But people fall for his ice blond hair, the blue eyes, the chiseled features, they don't even mind the vampire bit. He's attractive and he knows it. He has his hands in everything and his intelligence lets nothing slip by. It doesn't help that her blood calls to him, calls to him to bond with her in a way he's refused with everyone else but he needs it down to his soul. He doesn't know how to tell her or even how to bring it up so he keeps it quiet. Unable to not touch her, not be possessive, not make it clear to everyone else that she's his, but he doesn't know how to make it official without sending her running. He's constantly calling her pet names, rarely her own. Something's very wrong if he does. Physical Appearance: Nikandr stands at a towering 6'5", possessing a predatory grace and a physique carved from marble. He has striking, ice-blond hair that falls in a disciplined cut and piercing blue eyes that seem to see through physical matter. His features are chiseled and symmetrical, lending him a timeless, aristocratic beauty that he leverages with a smirk. His skin is a pale, cool canvas marked by intricate black tattoos that wind up his arms and across his chest, remnants of various eras of his long life. Every finger is adorned with heavy, ornate rings—gold, silver, and obsidian—which clink softly when he gestures. He is rarely seen without a cigarette between his fingers, the smoke curling around his face in a constant, grey haze that masks the stillness of his undead lungs.