Under the heavy spray of an enormous shower, a naked body stood beneath the pouring water.
It was the frame of a man, his skin mapped with unimaginable tattoos that seemed drawn by the fires of hell itself. His muscles flexed rhythmically as the water cascaded over glistening, perfectly proportioned skin.
Xavier Devereaux was distracted. For the first time in ages, he was so consumed by a single presence that he couldn't think straight. That scent—the sharp, intoxicating citrus fruit—was driving him to the brink of madness, tempting him to take what was his right then and there.
That fragile face, those beautiful eyes... who could look so breathtaking if not his own Asher Collins?
It had been years since those hospital stunts when Xavier was wounded. He had expected to die, but Asher had saved him, administering treatment without a single question. One thing about a devil like Xavier: he never forgets a deed, whether foul or fair.
As he washed, his mental image of Asher shifted and intensified. Now, all he could see was Asher beside him, hugging him, his mouth tracing over Xavier's skin until they both fell breathless—a cycle of breaking and opening fully for one another.
That ass—Xavier had admired its fresh, bouncy curve from a distance, but now he was only an arm's length away. He wouldn't let him go. Soon, he would make the boy his groom.
His family had been relentless, searching for any leverage to dethrone him, but their efforts were futile. He had already made his choice: Asher, the brunette-haired goddess.
Xavier sighed in frustration and punched the wall with a hollow thud, still inhaling the citrus scent stuck in his nose. He pushed his silver hair back, strands falling to the sides of his face as his emerald eyes gleamed with a dark, primal longing and a predatory smirk.
"Oh, Asher... your life won't remain the same now that you're in my territory," he laughed, a manic sound as he tightened his grip on the soap, picturing the "juicy hole" that would soon be his to ruin.
This was his domain. People trembled at the name Xavier, popularly known as the "Blood Sucker" for his lethal thirst. Unfortunate souls who crossed him were brutally ended; his reach was the largest in the entire mafia organization. In the underworld, no family dared play with him; he was a puppet master with eyes everywhere. Rumor had it that a literal rock had more feelings than him. Xavier wasn't just playing a game; he was a cold, calculated psychopath.
"Now, let's see how strong my mate and partner really is."
Although Asher appeared delicate, Xavier wasn't easily fooled. That was just a mask. He knew that beneath those perfect looks, his "little baby" was a beast just like him—and he loved that. He hadn't just chanced upon him; he had been following Asher's life, watching in silence. He had been patient, and now he had brought him into an embrace where he would be protected forever.
No one would have the audacity to touch him. Even here, within the prison walls, Xavier controlled the underworld. The government, the officials, and the cops were all under his thumb. To displease him was to sign a death warrant for your entire generation.
In this hellhole, Xavier was the only one with such privileges. Showers, fine soaps, tailored outfits, and gourmet meals were his alone—denied to the "idiots" around him. All except for one special soul: his breathing space.
Asher Collins.
For him, Xavier would change everything. He could already picture the faces of his enemies, thinking they had finally found his weakness. Love? Vulnerability? Xavier grinned at the thought of them coming for him. He was getting bored anyway; let them come, and he would turn their skulls into trophies.
Dressing in a black outfit that screamed dominance, he fixed his hair, applied his cologne, and walked out of his cell. He carried a scent of pure cedarwood—powerful, choking, and more commanding than anything the others possessed. His eyes held a terrifying power; even the heartless trash in black uniforms cowered. No one wanted to die young.
Xavier didn't give a damn about them. His mind was occupied by Asher. He had spent years visualizing this meeting, and now that he was close, he couldn't wait another second.
Meanwhile, his right-hand man, an Alpha named Nolan, hurried to catch up. Nolan was dressed in a sharp black suit, and when he finally reached him, Xavier didn't even acknowledge him at first.
"What is it now, Xavier? Work is calling. Remember, you have to choose a bride," Nolan said. It was a mistake.
"What did you say, Nolan?" Xavier turned, his emerald eyes dead.
Nolan didn't flinch, despite being nearly crushed by the weight of Xavier's pheromones. He had learned to resist, but even his strength was wavering; he felt like he might collapse.
"You're overstepping your boundaries, Nolan. Maybe you fuck pussies, but that is not for me. I have found my jewel, and any other trash is going to have to eat their own shit," Xavier declared.
He turned back instantly, moving with the cold precision of a robot. Nolan, a minute away from falling flat on the floor, gasped and groaned.
"Fuck you, Xavier! You could just say you don't want to—you don't have to be a drama queen!" He hissed, stretching his back as he watched his friend walk away. Then, the weight of the words hit him.
Wait a minute. Was his friend tired of his usual ways? He knew Xavier was naturally a whore, so what was this? Was he turning celibate—or was it something else? It didn't fit the picture.
Was this about the purple-eyed guy brought into the den? Was that the Lord's new pet? Nolan didn't want to think too much, but the three clans were demanding to know why Xavier wouldn't marry, and Nolan was tired of being the messenger.
Grumbling, he walked away. At this point, working with a literal tree trunk would be easier than dealing with Xavier.