Damien Foxworth had ruled for centuries without hesitation.
He had governed fox clans from the shadows, bent corporations and councils to his will, and enforced ancient laws older than most nations. His arrogance was not arrogance at all—it was certainty. The kind that came from knowing exactly who and what you were.
Which was why the feeling gnawing at him now was unacceptable.
He stood before the mirror in his private chambers, the city far below replaced by wards etched into obsidian walls. The room was hidden from human sight, cloaked in illusions woven long before skyscrapers existed. Candles burned without flame, glowing foxfire casting gold and silver light across the floor.
Damien loosened his tie with sharp, impatient fingers.
Attachment, the laws whispered in his mind.
Forbidden.
He closed his eyes, and the illusion fell away.
For a brief moment, his reflection was no longer human.
Nine tails unfurled behind him—vast, luminous, each one marked with sigils of power and age. His eyes burned molten gold, pupils slit like a predator's. Foxfire flickered along his skin, restrained only by centuries of discipline.
"Control," he muttered.
The tails stilled.
Fox Law was not a suggestion. It was survival.
A nine-tailed fox did not bond with humans.
Not emotionally. Not magically.
Never fully.
History had proven why.
---
Long ago—before contracts and boardrooms—foxes had walked openly among humans. Curiosity had led to affection. Affection to love. Love to catastrophe.
Humans aged. Foxes did not.
When humans died, foxes shattered.
Whole clans had fallen to madness, power surges tearing through realms. Wars had started. Realms had collapsed. The laws were carved into existence with blood and fire to prevent it from ever happening again.
No fox above three tails was allowed prolonged closeness with a human.
No fox of nine tails was permitted attachment at all.
And yet—
Damien saw Lina Hart's face when he closed his eyes.
Focused. Tired. Unyielding.
Human.
"Ridiculous," he growled.
She was an assistant. Competent, yes. Defiant in a quiet way. Interesting—but interest was not attachment.
He had known countless humans over centuries.
Kings. Queens. Scholars. Enemies.
They all blurred together eventually.
She would too.
---
The Council did not agree.
The summoning came at dawn.
Damien felt it before it happened—a ripple in the wards, a pressure at the base of his spine where magic pooled. He dressed without hesitation, slipping back into his human mask with practiced ease.
The boardroom beneath Foxworth Corporation was not on any blueprint.
It existed between floors, between realities.
The moment Damien stepped inside, the temperature dropped.
Seven figures sat around the circular stone table, each cloaked in illusion. Some appeared human. Others did not bother.
"You are late," said Elder Kaien, his voice echoing unnaturally.
"I was summoned, not requested," Damien replied coolly. "Be precise with your accusations."
A low murmur rippled through the Council.
"You've grown careless," said another voice. "Your power fluctuated yesterday."
Damien's eyes narrowed. "You monitor my power now?"
"We monitor threats," Kaien corrected. "And you, Sovereign, are becoming one."
Silence stretched.
Then Kaien spoke the words Damien had hoped—foolishly—would not be said.
"The human."
Damien did not react.
"You placed a human directly within your influence," Kaien continued. "Your aura touched hers. The wards registered it."
"She is my assistant," Damien said flatly. "Nothing more."
"Foxfire does not respond to nothing," another elder snapped. "Your instincts stirred."
Damien's jaw tightened.
"That is not a crime."
"No," Kaien said calmly. "But indulgence leads to violation."
Images flared above the table—memories of foxes driven mad by loss, realms scorched by uncontrolled grief.
"You know the law," Kaien said. "Distance must be enforced."
"I will handle it," Damien replied.
"You will remove her."
The words struck harder than expected.
"Explain," Damien said slowly.
"Transfer her. Fire her. Wipe her memory if necessary," Kaien said. "She cannot remain close to you."
Damien's power flared, foxfire licking the edges of the room.
"No," he said.
The Council stiffened.
Kaien's gaze sharpened. "Careful."
"I said no," Damien repeated, voice cold as winter steel. "She has done nothing wrong."
"That is irrelevant."
"She is human," Damien said. "Not prey. Not collateral."
The elders exchanged glances.
"You are already defending her," Kaien observed quietly.
Silence.
Damien realized then—too late—that he had revealed more than he intended.
"You have one cycle," Kaien said at last. "If your attachment deepens, we will intervene."
The summoning ended.
Damien stood alone in the empty chamber, breathing slowly.
One cycle.
Time had never felt so small.
---
Lina felt it before she understood it.
The air around her desk buzzed faintly when she arrived at work that morning, like static before a storm. She shook off the sensation and focused on her screen, determined not to overthink things.
She was halfway through sorting Damien's emails when the glass door slid open.
"Ms. Hart," Damien said sharply.
She looked up.
His expression was colder than usual. Harder.
"Yes, sir?"
"You'll be reassigned."
The words landed like a slap.
Her fingers stilled. "Reassigned?"
"Temporary," he added quickly—too quickly. "Another executive. Same pay."
Her chest tightened. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Then why—"
"This is not a discussion," Damien snapped.
Lina stood slowly. "With respect, sir, I've done everything you asked. I've worked late. I've handled situations others wouldn't."
"I know," he said.
The admission slipped out before he could stop it.
Lina searched his face, confusion mixing with something else—hurt.
"Then why does it feel like you're pushing me away?" she asked quietly.
The words hit deeper than any accusation.
Damien turned his back to her.
"Because proximity has consequences," he said coldly.
"For who?" Lina asked.
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
Finally, Lina squared her shoulders. "If you want me reassigned, fine. But don't pretend this is about performance."
She gathered her things, hands steady despite the ache in her chest.
As she walked away, Damien felt something pull—sharp, instinctive.
His power surged.
The glass walls shuddered.
Lina froze.
She turned slowly.
"What was that?" she whispered.
Damien forced his magic down, his voice controlled. "Leave. Now."
She hesitated, then nodded.
But as she stepped into the hallway, Lina knew—knew—this wasn't over.
---
That night, Lina walked home alone.
The city felt different.
Too quiet.
Her instincts prickled as she passed an alley she'd walked through a hundred times before.
A shadow moved.
She stopped.
"Hello?" she called softly.
The air shifted.
Eyes gleamed in the darkness—gold, silver, blue.
Not human.
Lina's breath caught.
Before she could run, the shadows lunged—
—and slammed into an invisible wall of fire.
Damien appeared between her and the darkness, foxfire blazing, nine tails unfurled in all their terrible glory.
"Touch her," he snarled, voice no longer human, "and you will burn."
The creatures retreated instantly, vanishing into the night.
Lina stared.
Her world cracked open.
"You're—" Her voice shook. "You're not—"
"A fox," Damien said quietly, turning to face her. "Nine-tailed. Sovereign."
Fear flashed across her face.
Then confusion.
Then something far more dangerous.
Understanding.
"You reassigned me to protect me," she said slowly.
Damien closed his eyes.
"Yes."
"Because of… them?"
"And because of me," he admitted.
The silence between them pulsed with truth.
Fox Law screamed in his blood.
But instinct—older, deeper—pulled him closer.
"You should be afraid," he said.
"I am," Lina replied.
She looked up at him, eyes steady.
"But I don't want to run."
Damien's heart—ancient, guarded—missed a beat.
And far away, the fox laws burned brighter.
Because the forbidden attachment had already begun.
Whether either of them was willing to admit it or not.