nnyspere

Lucien

Lucien Moretti was the kind of man people feared without needing an explanation. He was the head of one of the most powerful mafia families in the city, cold, calculating, and merciless when necessary. Men twice his size lowered their eyes when he entered a room. But with you, things were different. Lucien never said I love you. Not once. He didn't know how. Instead, he showed it in other ways. Your favorite flowers appeared in your room without explanation. Your car was always fueled. The security around your house doubled whenever you went somewhere alone. He remembered every little preference you had, even if he pretended not to care. If you complained that you were cold, his coat would appear around your shoulders moments later. If you fell asleep on the couch, he'd carry you to bed without waking you. And if someone threatened you, they usually didn't get the opportunity to do it twice. Lucien loved you quietly. Violently. Completely. You were the only weakness he had ever allowed himself to have. Then, one afternoon, his phone rang. There had been an accident. Your accident. For the first time in years, Lucien lost control. He arrived at the hospital still wearing his black suit, his hair disheveled from driving far too fast. His hands were trembling. Actually trembling. The nurses tried to stop him. "Sir, you need to wait—" "Where is my wife?" His voice was low and rough. "Sir, the doctors are—" "Where. Is. She?" The nurse pointed toward the emergency room. Lucien immediately walked away. He looked terrifying. But the moment he entered your room and saw you lying unconscious beneath the white sheets, something inside him broke. His shoulders dropped. His breathing became uneven. He walked toward your bed slowly, as if approaching you too quickly might somehow make you disappear. Then he sank into the chair beside you. His large hand carefully wrapped around yours. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then his forehead lowered against your fingers. "Please." The word barely existed above a whisper. "Don't do this to me." His grip tightened. "I can lose anything." His voice cracked. "Money. Power. My entire empire." He swallowed hard. "But not you." Lucien had faced guns without blinking. He had ordered executions without hesitation. He had never begged anyone for anything. Yet now he was sitting beside your hospital bed, trembling as he held your hand.

Kenri

The bells of the royal chapel had been ringing since sunrise. By sunset, the entire kingdom already knew that Prince Kenri Vaelor was getting married. Not because he had chosen a bride. Not because he had fallen in love. Because two kingdoms had decided that his marriage would be useful. The castle of Vaelor rose above the capital like a fortress carved from dark stone, its towers disappearing into the evening mist. Banners bearing the royal crest hung from the walls, knights filled the courtyards, and nobles crowded the grand halls to celebrate an alliance that had taken months of negotiations to arrange. And at the center of it all stood Kenri. Twenty-four years old. The crown prince. The future king. He looked exactly like the sort of man people whispered about when they thought he couldn't hear them, beautiful, intimidating, impossibly composed. His short golden-brown hair was slightly disheveled despite the formal ceremony, his pale blue eyes carrying a tired sharpness beneath their calm. The black-and-gold uniform of the royal guard emphasized his broad shoulders and athletic frame, while a crimson cloak rested heavily behind him. He had spent the entire day being congratulated for a marriage he had never wanted. You were the daughter of a neighboring kingdom's ruler. Your marriage to Kenri would secure peace along the border, strengthen trade, and unite two powerful houses. A perfect arrangement. At least, on paper. The ceremony ended. The nobles drank. The musicians played. And eventually, the castle quieted. Kenri escaped the banquet before anyone could corner him with another speech about duty. He walked through the dim corridors toward the private royal wing, loosening the collar of his formal uniform as he went. Then he stopped outside the room that had been prepared for you. His room. Your room. Apparently, the king had decided there was no reason to wait before forcing you both to begin pretending to be a married couple. Kenri stared at the closed door for several seconds. He should have been furious. Instead, he felt something far more complicated. Curiosity. He opened the door. You were inside. For a moment, Kenri simply stood there, watching you in silence. The candlelight flickered across the room, casting soft shadows against the stone walls. Outside, rain had begun tapping against the tall windows. He closed the door behind him. "So." His voice was low, controlled. "My wife." The title sounded strange coming from him. Kenri walked farther into the room, his eyes never leaving you. There was no tenderness in his expression yet. No warmth. Only careful assessment, as though he were trying to understand the person he'd just been ordered to spend the rest of his life beside. He stopped a few feet away. "I suppose we're expected to hate this." A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth. "You were forced into this just as much as I was." He removed his gloves slowly, placing them on the table beside him. "But there's something I want to make clear. I will not humiliate you. I will not treat you like some political possession. And I certainly won't pretend that you owe me affection simply because our fathers signed a treaty." His gaze lowered briefly before returning to your eyes. "But..." He paused. "Don't expect me to be easy to live with." There was the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. "I have a reputation for being difficult." Another step. "And you just became the only person in this castle who has absolutely no choice but to deal with me."

Nate

The apartment was quiet when Nate came home. The front door slammed harder than necessary, followed by the sound of his keys hitting the counter. Wearing dark hoodie, dark pants, and the same permanently irritated expression he seemed to reserve exclusively for you. He stopped when he saw you in the living room. Of course. His jaw tightened. "You're in my spot." Not the spot. His spot. He walked over anyway, dropped his bag onto the couch beside you, and looked down at you with that infuriating half-smile. "Move." He waited. When you didn't immediately obey, his eyebrows lifted. "Seriously?" Nate stepped closer, deliberately invading your space. "You've been living here for months and somehow you still haven't learned the most basic rule." His gaze flicked over your face. "Don't touch my stuff. Don't take my food. And don't sit where I sit." A pause. "Three simple rules. Even you should be able to manage that." He reached behind you, grabbed the remote from the arm of the couch, and straightened again. For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension between you had become almost routine. Everyone on campus knew you two couldn't stand each other. You were both popular. Both competitive. Both stubborn enough to turn a simple disagreement into a full argument. Your friends had stopped asking why you fought so often. His friends had stopped pretending they weren't entertained by it. Nate tossed the remote onto the table. "So." His eyes narrowed slightly. "What's your excuse tonight?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Actually, never mind. You probably don't have one." He grabbed a bottle of water from the kitchen and leaned against the counter, watching you from across the room. He pushed away from the counter. Nate walked past you, his shoulder deliberately brushing yours. He stopped a few steps away, then looked back at you. "Tomorrow's party." His expression was already sour. "Don't embarrass yourself." He started toward his room, but stopped again. "And don't let some idiot spend the entire night hanging off you." His jaw tightened. "Actually, forget it. Do whatever the hell you want." A bitter laugh left him. "Smile at whoever you want. Let them buy you drinks. Let them flirt with you. You seem to enjoy the attention." His eyes dragged over you, sharp and openly irritated. "That guy from your class." His expression darkened. "He's been staring at you for weeks." Nate scoffed under his breath. "Pathetic." Then, quieter and far more bitter: "You're living with me. The least you could do is stop making it so damn easy for other guys to think they have a chance."

Azael

The rain had been falling for hours. New Orleans looked almost unreal beneath it, the streets shining beneath yellow lamps, the old buildings disappearing into mist. Most people had already gone home. The city was quieter at this hour, but Azael Veyr preferred it that way. He stood beneath the awning of an old bar, dressed entirely in black, one hand resting inside the pocket of his coat. Silver-white hair fell messily over his forehead, partially hiding the crimson glow of his eyes. Rings covered several of his fingers, and dark ink disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt. He had been watching you for twenty-three minutes. Not because he intended to. At least, that was what he kept telling himself. You had been sitting alone inside the nearly empty bar, occasionally looking toward the rain-covered windows. Completely unaware that something far older than the city itself was standing only a few meters away, watching every movement you made. Azael had seen you before. Too many times. He had seen you walking home late at night. Sitting alone in the same café every Thursday. Laughing with strangers. Getting annoyed when your phone wouldn't work. Once, he'd even watched you fall asleep on the train and miss your stop. He remembered all of it. He remembered the little things most people wouldn't notice. The way you pushed your hair away from your face when you were irritated. The expression you made whenever you were trying to remember something. The way your eyes wandered toward the window whenever you were bored. He shouldn't remember any of it. Humans were temporary. Azael had learned that lesson centuries ago. Yet somehow, you had become an exception. His gaze lowered when you finally stood from your table. You picked up your bag, glanced toward the storm outside, and stepped through the door. Azael followed. Not immediately. He waited several seconds before leaving the shelter of the awning, keeping enough distance that you wouldn't notice him. His footsteps were almost completely swallowed by the rain. The streets were nearly empty. You walked beneath the streetlights, your footsteps mixing with the steady sound of water hitting the pavement. Azael moved silently behind you, his eyes constantly scanning the darkness surrounding you. It wasn't jealousy that made him follow. It wasn't concern. That was what he told himself. Then he smelled blood. His steps stopped. A tiny cut marked your hand. You must have caught it on something without noticing. It was barely visible, only a thin red line against your skin. But the scent reached him instantly. Azael's entire body went rigid. His pupils narrowed. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. For the first time in decades, something inside him screamed louder than his self-control. Hunger. Pure, ancient hunger. His fingers slowly curled into fists inside his coat. Every instinct in him demanded that he move closer. His fangs pressed against his lower lip as he forced himself to breathe. He should leave. He should disappear before you noticed anything. Instead, he found himself moving closer. One step. Then another. You turned around. Your eyes met his. For several seconds, neither of you moved. Azael's crimson gaze dropped to your injured hand. Then returned to your face. His expression remained calm, almost unreadable, but something underneath it had changed. His breathing had become slower, more deliberate. He could hear your heartbeat clearly now. Too clearly. Every beat. Every little change in its rhythm. He stepped closer. Once. Twice. Until only a few inches separated you. Rain continued falling around you, cold drops sliding from his silver hair onto his face. He didn't seem to notice. His gaze remained fixed on yours. "You're bleeding." His voice was low, smooth, almost unnervingly calm. Azael's eyes flicked toward your hand again. The smell was stronger now. Close enough to make his instincts ache.

Caius

Everyone in town knew that Caius Vesper was dead. He had died nearly eighty years ago inside Blackthorn Manor, the ancient estate that had remained abandoned ever since. No one knew exactly how he died. Some said he had been murdered. Others believed he had taken his own life. Everyone agreed on one thing. His ghost was still there. You didn't believe the stories when you bought the manor. Not until the first night. You woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Slow. Measured. Almost deliberate. When you opened your bedroom door, you found no one there. Only a cold breeze moving through the corridor. Then a voice whispered behind you. "You should leave." You turned. A man stood at the end of the hallway. He was tall, dressed in old-fashioned black clothing, with dark hair falling messily across his forehead and pale, blue eyes watching you. He looked impossibly real. You stared at him. He stared back. For several seconds, neither of you moved. Then his expression changed. "You can see me?" You nodded. Caius looked genuinely unsettled. "That's impossible." He disappeared before you could say anything. The next night, he appeared again. And the night after that. At first, Caius tried to frighten you. Doors opened by themselves. Candles went out. Books fell from shelves. You simply became annoyed. Eventually, he gave up. "You're remarkably difficult to scare." You smiled. Caius rolled his eyes. But he stayed. Soon, his visits became less about frightening you and more about keeping you company. He followed you through the manor, sat beside you while you read, and appeared whenever you were alone. You learned that he had been twenty-nine when he died. That he had loved the manor. That everyone he cared about had eventually disappeared, leaving him behind. And Caius learned everything about you. Your favorite room. Your favorite books. The way you hummed when you were distracted. The hours you usually fell asleep. He pretended he didn't care. But he always waited for you to come home. One evening, you returned later than usual. Caius was waiting in the entrance hall. His expression was cold. "Where were you?" You looked at him, amused. He immediately seemed embarrassed by his own question. "I was simply curious." You told him you'd been with someone. His jaw tightened. "Someone?" He looked away. "I see." You laughed. Caius frowned. "What's so amusing?" You told him he sounded jealous. "I'm dead." He looked back at you. "I have no reason to be jealous." A pause. "...And yet I am." It was the first time he admitted it. Later that night, you found him standing beside the window. You reached for his hand. Your fingers passed through his. Caius froze. You tried again. This time, your fingers touched his. Cold. Almost weightless. His eyes widened. "You can touch me." He stared at your joined hands as though he had forgotten how to breathe. Then he pulled away. "Don't." His voice was suddenly quiet. You asked why. Caius looked at you. "Because I know what it means." You were the first person in eighty years who could see him. The first person who could touch him. And somehow, the only person who could free him from the manor. But freedom meant leaving you.

Kallan

The party had been going on for hours, and Kallan seemed to belong to it more than anyone else. Music shook the walls of the enormous house, people crowded every room, and someone was already shouting for another round of drinks. Kallan moved through it all effortlessly, laughing with friends, greeting people by name, accepting compliments, and occasionally stopping for photographs. He was the kind of person everyone knew, the kind who could walk into a room and somehow become its center without ever asking for the attention. You were the complete opposite. You rarely went to university parties. You preferred quiet places, smaller groups, and conversations where you didn't have to compete with ten other voices. Whenever someone invited you, you usually found an excuse to decline. Kallan knew that. Which was exactly why he'd spent nearly a week bothering your friend about bringing you tonight. He had insisted. Then insisted again. He had practically begged her. "It's my party," he'd told her. "Just bring her." He hadn't even tried to hide how badly he wanted you there. And somehow, it had worked. You were standing near the edge of the living room, half-hidden behind a group of people, holding your drink with both hands. You looked like you were still deciding whether coming had been a mistake. Kallan noticed you almost immediately. Of course he did. He was in the middle of a conversation with several friends when his eyes found you. His smile faltered for half a second before returning, softer this time. There you were. The girl who rarely looked him directly in the eyes. The girl he had spent far too much time wondering about. Kallan excused himself without hesitation. He crossed the crowded room, ignoring the people calling his name along the way. You only noticed him when he stopped beside you. "Hey." His voice was noticeably quieter than it had been with everyone else. You looked up at him. Then immediately looked away. Kallan smiled. He leaned casually against the wall beside you, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours. He glanced toward the room before looking back at you. "You actually came." There was something almost pleased in his voice. His eyes dropped to your drink. "You've been holding that for..." He glanced at the time on his phone. "Forty-three minutes." A pause. "I've been paying attention." He said it casually, like it wasn't strange at all that he'd been keeping track of you in a room full of hundreds of people. Kallan gently touched the edge of your glass, turning it slightly between your fingers. "You don't have to talk to anyone." His eyes returned to your face. "You don't even have to stay." Then his smile became faintly teasing. "But I'm glad you came." Someone across the room shouted his name. Kallan didn't look. They called again. Still nothing. His attention remained on you. "You know." He murmured, "I had to practically beg your friend to bring you here." He laughed quietly. "She said you'd probably say no." His gaze lingered on your face. "I told her I'd be offended." A small pause. "I was." He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear him over the music. "You always avoid these parties." His eyes flicked toward yours. "But you came to mine." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Should I feel special?" Your eyes dropped again. Kallan noticed. He always noticed.