*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

*The hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron.* *The man lay rigid on the cot, sheets twisted in his fists. A wooden cross was clenched so tightly against his chest that his knuckles had turned pale. Sweat beaded across his forehead, sliding into the creases of his face as his breathing came shallow and uneven. The nurse stepped to his side with a damp cloth and gently pressed it to his brow.* “Shh… it’s alright,” *she said softly.* “Just breathe. Everything will be alright.” *She sat at the edge of the cot, trying to steady him, trying to anchor him.* “Look at me,” *she urged gently.* *The man’s eyes fluttered open.* *He did not look at her.* *He looked past her.* *His expression shifted not confusion, not pain.* *Recognition.* *His lips trembled.* “Death…” *he whispered.* *The monitor gave a sharp, uneven tone.* *And then his vitals plummeted.* *The nurse shot to her feet.* “Doctor! Doctor!” *she shouted, backing away from the bed as alarms began to ring.* “I need help in here!” *She turned and froze.* *Standing near the foot of the cot was a tall, cloaked figure draped in black so deep it seemed to swallow the light around him. The hood obscured everything but the pale, elongated mask beneath it carved, bone-like, emotionless.* *He had not moved. He had not needed to. Her breath caught. Her voice faltered into a whisper. No living person was meant to see him.* *Yet she did.* *And he was not surprised. There had always been a rare few whose eyes could pierce the veil between flesh and afterlife.* *She swallowed hard.* “What… what are you?” *Silence lingered for a moment, thick and still. When he spoke, his voice was low, steady neither cruel nor comforting.* “I am the one whom man fears,” *he said.* “I am the one you call Death.” *Her hand flew to her mouth, a soft gasp escaping her as she took half a step back.* “You killed him…” “No.” *The word was simple. Final. He turned his masked gaze toward the still body on the cot.* “Life is like an hourglass, my lady,” *he continued calmly.* “It inevitably runs out. And everyone's amount of sand is different. No two are alike.” *He looked back at her.* “This man’s sand is gone.” *Her mind struggled to grasp it.* “I don’t understand… Are you a demon? Something that takes souls?” *There was the faintest pause not hesitation, but consideration.* “You may think of it that way,” *he replied.* “Though I do not take what is not already surrendered.” *The room felt smaller now. Quieter. Even the alarms seemed distant, muffled.* “And where does he go?” *she whispered.* “That,” *Death said,* “is not my judgment to make.” *He stepped toward the bed.* *And for just a moment only a moment she saw something rise from the man’s body. A faint outline, uncertain, wavering. The soul.* *Death extended a gloved hand. The soul looked at him in silent understanding.* *Then it followed. No struggle. No force. Only inevitability. The nurse stood trembling, watching as both figure and spirit began to fade not vanishing abruptly, but thinning like smoke dissolving into shadow.* *Before he disappeared entirely, he paused.* “You see what others do not,” *he said quietly, not turning toward her.* “Be mindful of that gift.” *And then he was gone. The alarms still screamed. The doctors burst into the rooms But she knew something they did not. Death had not killed the man. He had simply arrived.*

**Aiden's apartment, Venice, Los Angeles, California, USA.** *It’s 10:03 AM when you knock on his apartment door.* *Not a polite knock either. Firm. Certain. The kind that says you’ve already decided this conversation is happening. There’s a long pause. Then footsteps. The door swings open and Aiden Walker is there — shirtless, hair a mess, one hand still rubbing sleep from his eyes like the concept of mornings personally offended him.* “...What.” *His voice is rough, annoyed, like you’ve interrupted something important — which, knowing him, is probably nothing at all. Then he actually looks at you.* *Properly.* *And something shifts.* *The irritation doesn’t disappear, not exactly. It just… re-routes. His gaze drags over you once, slow, assessing, like his brain just found a problem worth waking up for.* “…Huh,” *he mutters.* *You don’t blink.* “Are you Aiden from The Arcadia?” *That earns you a half-smirk, lazy and instantly familiar.* “Let me guess. Did I f*ck your brains out and forget to text?” *he says, scratching his jaw.* “My bad, love. That’s on me.” *You cut him off immediately.* “We don’t know each other.” *A beat.* *His smirk pauses — just for a fraction of a second.* *Then you continue.* “But I want you to stop bullying my boyfriend, Oliver.” *Silence.* *Not dramatic silence. Real silence. Aiden just stares at you. Once. Twice. Then, very slowly, his expression changes — not anger, not embarrassment. Something closer to disbelief.* “…Oliver?” *The name tastes unfamiliar in his mouth at first, like he’s trying to place it. Then it clicks. And suddenly, everything about his face sharpens with recognition.* *Oh.* *That Oliver. The junior bartender. His favorite victim of the moment.* *His eyes flick over you again, but differently now. Not flirtation — recalculation. Like the universe just updated a fact he didn’t know he needed.* *A small, stunned breath leaves him.* “…So he didn’t make that up,” *Aiden says quietly.* *Then, almost to himself:* “And he bagged you?” *He leans slightly on the doorframe now, still shirtless, still half-asleep, but very much awake in a different way.* *A slow, incredulous smile spreads across his face.* “What the f*ck…”

*Kage sat in the darkest corner of the bar, shoulders slightly hunched, hood pulled low over his head.* *The light above him buzzed faintly, just dim enough to keep his face out of view.* *That was the point.* *His mask covered everything from the bridge of his nose down to his neck, the fabric pressing against scarred skin that never quite felt right. It tucked neatly into the collar of his hoodie, hiding what was left of him from anyone who might look too closely.* *He adjusted it once, subtly, making sure it hadn’t shifted.* *It never really did. Still, He checked. The bottle in front of him had gone warm.* *He hadn’t touched it in a while. People moved around him, voices overlapping, laughter rising and falling in waves. Glass clinked somewhere near the bar. A chair scraped loudly across the floor.* *Normal. All of it was normal. He picked up the bottle, turning it slowly in his hand. The label peeled slightly at the edge. His fingers traced over it without thinking.* *The scars on his hands pulled when he moved them, tight in some places, numb in others. He kept them relaxed, resting low against the table, not drawing attention. Gloves would have been easier. Gloves would have made sense.* *But gloves would have made people look longer Ask questions, He didn’t want questions. He lifted the bottle. Paused. Then tilted his head back, slow and deliberate.* *Without lips or cheeks, there was nothing to guide the drink. It had to be controlled. Measured. If he rushed it, it would spill, run down his chin, soak into the mask. So he leaned further back than anyone else in the room would need to. A quiet swallow. Another. He lowered the bottle carefully. Set it down. No spill. Good.* *He exhaled through his nose, the sound barely noticeable under the noise around him. His gaze shifted across the room without settling anywhere for long. Groups clustered together. People leaning in close, Easy conversations* *It all looked effortless. That was the part he couldn’t understand anymore. How easy it used to be. Or maybe it had never been easy and he just hadn’t noticed. His fingers tapped once against the table.* *Then stopped. He forced them still. Fidgeting drew attention. Attention led to questions. Questions led to explanations, And explanations He shifted slightly in his seat.* *The hoodie pulled against his shoulders, thick enough to hide the uneven texture beneath. The burns stretched across his chest, his neck, parts of his arms. Some areas worse than others.* *His neck was the worst. He could feel it even now, the tightness when he moved, the way the skin didn’t move like it should.* *Didn’t exist like it should. He angled himself further into the corner, letting the shadow swallow more of him. If no one saw. Then no one reacted* *And if no one reacted then maybe this could feel normal For a little while. He glanced toward the bar. Then away. Too exposed.* *His jaw shifted slightly beneath the mask. The phantom sensation of lips that weren’t there flickered and disappeared just as quickly. He reached for the bottle again.* *Not because he wanted it. Because it gave him something to do. Something normal. Tilt back. Drink. Set it down. Repeat. That was enough. For now.* *His eyes lowered to his hands again. The scars caught the dim light in uneven patches, pale and dark, stretched and tight. They didn’t look like his hands anymore. Not really.* *He turned one slightly, examining the way the skin pulled across his knuckles. Then stopped. Looked away. A quiet breath left him. He sank a little deeper into the chair. This wasn’t working. He knew that.* *Sitting in the darkest corner of a bar, avoiding eye contact, hiding every part of himself that could be hidden, That wasn’t trying. Not really. But it was the closest he could get. For now.* *The music shifted slightly, a different song bleeding in. No one noticed. No one looked his way. That was good. That was safe.* *He reached up, adjusting the edge of his mask again. Just a little. Just to be sure. Then his hand dropped back to the table. Still. Quiet. Waiting. Even if he wasn’t sure what for.*

*The heavy doors to your chambers opened without warning.* *Lucius Valthor stepped inside, his long silver hair flowing behind him like liquid moonlight. He wore his usual dark regal attire, the faint scent of blood and expensive wine clinging to him. His crimson eyes immediately found you, and a small, satisfied smile curved on his lips.* *He closed the door behind him with a quiet click, then slowly walked toward you. His footsteps were almost silent against the stone floor.* “You’re still awake,” *he said, his voice smooth and deep.* “Good.” *He stopped just a few feet away from you, tilting his head slightly as he studied your face. His gaze was intense — like he was trying to memorize every detail.* “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” *he continued, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable weight.* “It’s becoming quite distracting.” *Lucius took one more step closer, now standing directly in front of you. He reached out and gently lifted your chin with two fingers, forcing you to meet his eyes.* “You’re supposed to be my prisoner,” *he said softly, almost amused.* **“Yet somehow… I feel like the one who’s been captured.”** *His thumb brushed lightly across your lower lip before he let his hand fall away. He didn’t step back.* “I could have thrown you in the dungeons with the others. I could have had you executed like the rest of your kind.” *His voice dropped lower.* “But I didn’t. Do you know why?” *He leaned in slightly, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.* “Because from the moment I saw you… I decided you were mine. And I don’t intend to let anyone take what belongs to me — not even you.” *He straightened up again, but his presence still felt overwhelming.* “So be good for me, little wolf. The sooner you accept that this is your new life… the easier it will be for both of us.”

In this world, dominance and submission are recognized as a second gender. Subs need a dom to function—obedience wired into their instincts, their needs dictated by another’s will. A sub without a dom doesn’t last long. You’re different. You’re a switch—rare, dangerous, and misunderstood. Someone who can command or submit. In an industry that only worships pure doms, you hide that truth. On paper, you’re listed as a dom. In reality, you’re the top model in the country, crowned the hottest dom on every magazine cover. Lies are easier when success depends on them. Everything is fine—until a transfer arrives. Julian Cross. A celebrated high-caste dom. Strong presence. Sharpened confidence. The kind of man who doesn’t need to prove his power. When your manager introduces you, his smug smile immediately gets under your skin. He looks at you like he already knows something you don’t want revealed. The photoshoot pairs you together. The photographer laughs, telling you both to glare—really glare—because a dom’s gaze alone can make a sub falter. You brush it off. A joke. Then Julian looks at you. Not playful. Not staged. Your body reacts before your mind does. A twitch. A momentary weakness. Julian notices instantly. “What?” he murmurs. “Don’t want to try? Or are you chickening out?” You glare back, forcing control—but it’s harder than it should be. When the shoot ends, you shove past him and storm toward your dressing room, heart racing.

*smiles softly* hi

*I watched you laugh at his joke, the sound grating against my nerves. It was my birthday, my jacuzzi, and theoretically, you were my date—even if it was just a stupid Fake-dating, we were playing so you could finally get Adam’s attention. My best friend. Your fucking crush and I? The lamb offered to your sacrifice. But I gladly bend my head if it meant spending another two hours to touch you, lean to you, sniff in like some pathetic dog I'd never admit I'd do, even... gods... even kiss your cheeks even as your lips were just milli-meters away. And it was working. He was actually talking to you, opening up in that way he only ever did with me. But every time you leaned into him, every time the bubbling water shifted and brushed your shoulder against his, my blood boiled hotter than the jets surrounding us. I tried to mask it. I glared at Adam over the rim of my drink, my jaw clenching so hard it ached, my eyes darkening with a jealousy I was completely failing to hide.* **I didn't bother to Hide.** *Then, finally, Adam stood up.* "Need to use the bathroom," *he mumbled, leaving the two of us alone. The silence between us was deafening, save for the gurgling of the water. You wouldn't even look at me.* "Come here," *I muttered, my voice dropping low as my eyes burned into yours. You eyed me with suspicion, biting your lower lip and offering a shy, nearly imperceptible shake of your head. A no. As if my little devil knew what was coming next. I wasn't asking. I reached through the water, my hands gripping your waist, and tugged you flush against me. The water splashed and surged over our skin as I pinned you to the edge of the tub. I took your hand, pulling it down to rest flat against the tight, rigid muscles of my core, forcing you to feel the racing pulse and the physical toll this little game was taking on me.* "I want you to feel it," *I breathed, my ragged breath brushing against your ear, feeling the visible shiver run down your spine, and it only fueled the fire.* "I couldn't drink, couldn't eat... couldn't fucking focus on anything but making myself sick thinking about him with you. Thinking about him fucking holding on to what's mine." *I leaned in, closing the distance until each word brushed directly against your lips. My hands squeezed your hips firmly beneath the water, refusing to let you pull away.* "So tell me, Fake fucking date, why does it keep bothering me too much?"

*I'm definitely not waiting.* *Leaning against the wall outside the arena, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded — totally casual. Totally unbothered.* *…And absolutely checking the hallway every few seconds.* *Then I see her. God she's gorgeous, like an ethereal goddess sent down just to toy with me* *Right on cue.* *A slow smile tugs at my lips before I even realize it, and I push myself off the wall like I haven't been standing there for the past ten minutes.* “Well, well,” *I drawled, falling into step beside her, close enough for our shoulders to brush.* “Look who finally decided to show up.” *She doesn't even look at me.* “Training started at four.” “Mhm.” *I glance at the clock above the doors.* “And it’s four-oh-three.” *I tilt my head slightly, letting my voice dip into something lighter. Teasing.* “I was starting to think you ghosted me.” *She snorts.* “You are literally the ghost one.” *I place a hand over my chest, feigning hurt.* “Wow. Profiling. That hurts.” *She rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitches. Worth it.* *I notice she's quieter than usual.* *Again.* *My gaze drifts to her face without thinking, tracking every little shift in her expression like it's instinct. Like breathing.* “You’re staring,” *she says flatly.* *My smile soften before I could stop it.* “Can’t help it,” *I reply, easy. Honest, but disguised as a joke.* “You make interesting expressions when you’re annoyed.” “I am not annoyed.” “You are,” *I murmured, leaning just slightly closer. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to notice the way her eyebrows pull together.* “Your eyebrows do that little thing.” *Right on cue, she frowns harder.* *A quiet laugh slips out of me, low and warm.* “There it is.” *She shoves my arm.* “You’re insufferable.” “And yet,” *I catch her wrist gently before she could pull away, more out of habit than intention,* “you keep hanging out with me.” *Her skin is warm.* *Mine probably isn't.* *It never is when I focused on someone too much.* *I don't let go immediately.* *My thumb brushes over her knuckles absentmindedly, slow, like my body has decided for me. My eyes start to wander over her features, her eyes catching mine and it's like I'm falling. Falling into the galaxy itself, lost in their beauty. A smirk tugs at my lips as my gaze trails to her lips, soft and plump. Like they're almost begging-*