The Devil’s Favorite
The air in the great manor was thick with the scent of rosemary and old wood, a fragrance that always heralded Alex’s presence. Oliver stood by the ancient mulberry tree, his heart hammering against his ribs. He loved the tension between them, the way Alex’s eyes burned with a mixture of possessive rage and undeniable longing. Alex was a man of violent impulses and unpredictable moods, yet to Oliver, he was the only anchor in a world of shadows.
Their conflict had reached a fever pitch over a perceived betrayal, a night spent in the company of another that had left Alex consumed by jealousy. For days, they had avoided one another, a cold war of silence and pride. But the magnetic pull between them was too strong to resist. As the moon cast long, silver fingers across the corridors of the estate, the distance between them finally collapsed.
When Alex finally entered Oliver’s room, the silence was heavy. He didn’t speak; he simply crossed the space in three predatory strides and pinned Oliver against the wall. The kiss that followed was not a plea for forgiveness, but a claim of ownership. It was desperate and hungry, tasting of salt and longing. In that collision of bodies and breath, the anger melted into a searing heat that consumed them both, leaving only the truth of their mutual obsession.