..
Win walked straight into Mark's personal space, moving with a graceful ignorance that bypassed the terror thick in the room. Mark instantly reached out, capturing Win's tender hands in his own. He brought them to his lips, blowing a soft puff of warmth onto his fingers, his touch so cautious it was as if he were afraid Win might shatter under the weight of his own shadow.
Win leaned in, closing the distance to wrap his arms around Mark. He rested his head against that broad, dangerous chest, listening to the steady beat of a heart that only softened for him. "Are you busy?" Win asked, his voice muffled by Mark's shirt. "I'm so sleepy... but I want you to sleep beside me."
"No, baby... I'm not busy," Mark murmured. His right hand wove into the hair at the back of Win's head, cradling him, while his left arm locked around Win's waist like an iron band. "I'll sleep beside you. Let's go."
But as he held his world in his arms, Mark's gaze slashed toward the doctor. The warmth in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a silent, murderous promise that chilled the marrow in the doctor's bones.
"Dr. Arthur..." he called out.
The doctor stopped dead near the lift, his spine feeling as though it had turned to water. He didn't dare turn back.
"Don't bother coming here again," Mark said, his eyes narrowing into predatory slits. "Next time... I will come to your office. And I will listen to your complaints there."
The threat was clear: the next conversation wouldn't be in the safety of the hall, but in the doctor's own sanctuary—where no one would hear him scream. The doctor nodded frantically, desperate to flee the Sovereign's presence, and vanished into the lift as the doors slid shut like a guillotine.
"Isn't it rude to tell someone not to come back?" Win asked, pulling back just enough to peer up at Mark. He wore a long face, his brow furrowed in a sleepy, heart-melting pout that demanded an explanation.
The Sovereign Devil was suddenly, inexplicably cornered.
Mark flustered, his gaze darting away as his internal armor cracked. He began to blink rapidly—a frantic, nervous habit that surfaced only in the presence of this one boy. "I said it because... because I didn't want to bother him," Mark stammered, his defense so weak and unconvincing it would have been laughable to anyone else in the room.
Win's pout dissolved into a smile. He adored this side of him—the way Mark's words failed him when he was trying to mask his "grumpy" nature. To the rest of the world, Mark was a wall of stone, but to Win, the Master's struggle was nothing short of adorable.
Mark continued to avoid his eyes, the rapid blinking making him look more like a caught child than a ruthless leader of the underworld. "Why are you smiling?" he grumbled, trying—and failing—to reclaim his dignity.
"Because you're cute."
The effect was instantaneous. Mark's face flooded with a deep, betraying shade of red. In that moment, the "Malice" that had haunted the hall was completely defeated, vanquished by the simple, radiant "Innocence" of the lamb.
Mark remained speechless, the flush on his face deepening to a crimson that betrayed every ounce of his supposed composure. The "Master" had been utterly dismantled by a single, four-letter word: cute. He looked away, his gaze darting around the grand hall as he struggled to remember how a "normal" man was supposed to breathe, let alone command a room. But when he looked back and caught the lingering, honeyed warmth of Win's smile, his restraint finally snapped.
He reached out, his large hand cupping the nape of Win's neck with a sudden, possessive heat. He didn't just kiss him; he claimed him. It was a deep, desperate embrace that tasted of hidden relief—a silent thank you for being the only light in his darkened world.
In the hallway, the superior maid didn't need an order. She sensed the shift in the atmosphere—the transition from the boardroom to the bedroom—and signaled the guards with a sharp nod. Like ghosts, they vanished into the shadows, leaving the King to worship his Heart in absolute, heavy silence.
Mark swept Win into his arms with effortless power. To Win, Mark felt like a wall of living stone—his muscles taut and sculpted with a lethal, predatory purpose. Yet, as he carried his prize toward the bed, Mark held him as if he were a feather, moving with a terrifying gentleness. He walked as if the slightest pressure might bruise the very innocence he lived to protect.
..
Mark lowered him onto the silk sheets, the fabric hissing like a warning beneath Win's weight. As Mark leaned over, his massive frame blotted out the light, his shadow swallowing Win whole until the room ceased to exist. He lingered there, pressing a kiss to Win's forehead—a gesture that was deceptively tender, yet felt like the slow, deliberate press of a seal onto hot wax.
"Are you tired?" Mark whispered. His voice had lost its edge of command, replaced by a thick, velvet hunger that vibrated against Win's skin, primal and heavy.
Win didn't flinch. Instead, he reached up, his small hands framing Mark's jaw. The contact was a bold tether, forcing the Master to descend further into his space, forcing those predatory eyes to lock onto his own. "Very tired," Win confessed, his voice a soft ache. "And I want you to soothe me. What should I do?"
Mark's expression didn't soften; it intensified. His pupils dilated until his eyes were nothing but shards of midnight, bottomless and demanding. He leaned down until their breaths mingled, a suffocating heat that pulled the air from Win's lungs.
"You don't need to do anything," Mark murmured, the words a low-frequency hum against Win's lips. "Just close your eyes and let me help you. Give me your silence, baby. I'll handle the rest."
Mark surrendered his jaw to Win's grip only to collapse forward, his colossal frame descending like a heavy, comforting anchor that pinned Win deep into the silk. He claimed Win's lips again with an aggressive, liquid desire, his tongue tracing the seam of Win's mouth as if to drink the very air from his lungs. In one fluid motion, Mark gathered both of Win's wrists in a single hand, locking them firmly above his head. It was a silent, iron-clad vow: in this room, Win was a prisoner of devotion, his slight body utterly eclipsed by the tectonic power of Mark's muscle. Against the breadth of Mark's chest, Win felt impossibly small—a delicate secret kept safe in a giant's shadow.
Mark slid lower, his mouth trailing a path of scorching fire over the ivory column of Win's neck. With his free hand, he worked the buttons of Win's shirt. As the fabric parted to reveal skin that glowed like polished marble, the air in Mark's lungs caught.
His breath hitched—a jagged, broken sound in the silence—as his eyes snagged on the pale map of scars etched into Win's torso. For a heartbeat, the "Master" faltered, his dark hunger flickering with a raw, protective ache. But he did not pull away. Instead, he leaned into the vulnerability. He moved lower, his lips grazing the fevered heat of Win's chest in a silent apology before his tongue found the sensitive dip of Win's navel, marking the skin with a heat that promised to burn away every old memory of pain.
The sensation of Mark's wet, rough tongue circling that sensitive dip made Win's back arch violently off the bed, his spine a taut bow of pure electricity. A hoarse, jagged moan tore from his throat, a raw sound that echoed the friction of his skin against the cool, treacherous silk.
"Aggghhhhh..."
Win's hips began to move instinctively, his waist rolling in a desperate, rhythmic search for more of that grounding weight, more of that predatory heat. The contrast was maddening: the slippery chill of the sheets beneath him and the scorching, demanding mouth of the man above him. It was a spark that threatened to incinerate the last of his logic, leaving nothing behind but the need to be consumed.
Mark didn't just hear the moan; he felt it vibrate through his own chest. The sound of Win breaking was the only fuel the fire in his gut required. He let out a low, guttural growl—the sound of a hunter who had finally cornered something precious. Shifting his massive frame, Mark used the sheer breadth of his body to press Win deeper into the mattress, his large hands sliding up to pin Win's wrists in an iron grip. This wasn't just a kiss; it was a territorial reclamation.
"Aahh.. Mr. Mark… aghh, please… don't stop… shhh… ahhh," Win whimpered, his voice a frayed thread of plea and praise.
Mark's mouth climbed higher, his hot breath ghosting over Win's trembling stomach like a desert wind before his teeth found purchase. He bit down—a sharp, deliberate claim. It wasn't enough to break the skin, but the stinging, electric pressure sent a jolt straight to Win's core, making his toes curl into the silk as he realized there was no part of him Mark wouldn't eventually own.
"You're driving me insane," Mark rasped, the words sounding like they were being dragged over gravel. His voice was thick with a dark, heavy lust that seemed to coat the very walls of the room. "Every sound you make... I want to tear it out of you. I want to feel you come apart under me until there's nothing left but what I've claimed."
Win's head thrashed against the pillows, his hair a dark halo against the silk, his eyes blown wide and glassy with a frantic desire. He was drowning—submerged in Mark's scent, a lethal mix of expensive cologne and the raw, musky heat of their proximity. He could feel the majestic tension of Mark's muscles, a living landscape of power pressing him down, making him feel impossibly small, utterly eclipsed, and terrifyingly worshipped.
Mark's hands finally released Win's wrists, the blood rushing back to his fingertips, only for Mark to slide those hot, calloused palms down to Win's waist. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh with a possessive strength, molding Win to his frame as if trying to fuse their bodies into one. He began to trail wet, fevered kisses upward, his tongue tasting the salt on Win's skin, moving toward his chest with a rhythmic, agonizing slowness that felt like a beautiful torture.
"Mark... please..." Win gasped, his voice a broken whisper, a thread of sound lost in the vastness of the room. He didn't know if he was begging for release or for the end of the world.
"Please what?" Mark murmured, his lips brushing against the frantic, bird-like thrumming of Win's pounding heart. He looked up, his face a mask of primal focus, his eyes obsidian voids of pure craving. "Ask me for it, Baby. Tell me how much you want me to take you. Tell me you're mine to break."
Mark pulled back just an inch, his mouth slick and glistening, his eyes glazed with a look of primal reverence as if he were staring at a miracle he intended to break. He descended again, sucking on Win's lips with a violent, rhythmic hunger. His massive fingers tangled deep into Win's hair, anchoring his head to the pillow, while his other hand clamped around Win's thin waist. With a surge of strength, he hauled Win upward, pulling him so flush against his towering frame that their ribcages collided and their heartbeats blurred into a single, frantic pulse.
"Uhmm.. Ahmm…"
Inside the heat of Win's mouth, Mark's tongue rolled and danced—a silent, fluent conversation of absolute need. He was relentless, refusing to let Win breathe, seeking to consume the very air in Win's lungs as if he could keep it for himself.
Finally, Mark retreated, allowing a cruel sliver of cool air to cut between their heated bodies. He buried his face in the crook of Win's shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against the sensitive skin. "Call me Babe... okay?" he groaned, the request sounding more like a desperate command.
Win responded by stretching his neck, exposing a landscape of beautiful, blossoming pink marks—the map of Mark's ownership. He looked thoroughly ruined and cherished all at once, his strength spent. "Uhmm…" he hummed, a low, vibrating note of assent that traveled through Mark's entire frame like an electric current, sealing the pact between the giant and his prize.
"Was I good?" Mark whispered, the words a seductive rasp that lingered in the quiet of the room. He finally loosened his iron grip, rolling onto his side with a heavy, graceful sigh. He gathered Win into the deep hollow of his chest, his massive arms forming a fortress that shielded the smaller man from the rest of the world.
Win took a long, trembling moment to return to reality. When his eyes finally fluttered open, he was breathtaking. His long lashes were spiked with moisture, and his swollen, red lips remained parted in a dazed, soft pout. A flush, deeper and more visceral than any before, climbed from his chest to his cheeks.
"Babe…" Win whispered, the word tentative yet certain. "You were… too good."
The name hit Mark like a physical blow. A wave of violent goosebumps erupted across his skin, a primal reaction to the sweetness of Win's surrender. Hearing 'Babe' is everything… I could die right here and be satisfied, he thought, a sense of total, heavy completion settling into his bones. He pressed a lingering kiss to Win's forehead, his towering muscles finally losing their defensive edge as he squeezed Win tightly against his heart.
"Babe.." Win's voice was a muffled vibration against Mark's skin.
"Hmm..?" Mark replied, a soft, genuine smile—rare and unprotected—breaking across his face as he looked down at the man he had just "consumed."
"Why do you love me?"
The question hit Mark like a plunge into sub-zero water. His body went rigid, his protective instincts flaring even as his grip tightened. "Why do you ask that now?" he murmured, the air in the room suddenly feeling thin.
Win tilted his head back, his smile dissolving into a look of serious, newborn-lamb curiosity. His eyes, still glassy from Mark's touch, searched the Master's face for a truth that went deeper than skin. "Because I am curious. I want to know what made you fall in love with me. Did you really come back for me because of that promise... or because you truly loved me? Now tell me... why do you love me?"
Mark didn't answer immediately. Instead, he hauled Win closer, burying him against his chest so that their heartbeats drummed against one another in a frantic, uneven rhythm. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes reflecting a hollow darkness—a shadow Win was never meant to witness.
"Why do you have so many questions, Kitty?" Mark asked. His voice was a low, roughened rasp, an attempt to steer them back to the safety of the present—back to the heat of the silk and the scent of Win's skin.
But the silence that followed was heavy with the things Mark couldn't say. He didn't want to talk about the past. To Mark, the years before Win returned were a freezing, lightless void. They were years spent forging an empire of bone and iron, a time when he had to become a monster just to endure. In that darkness, the boy in his arms had been a ghost—a flickering, distant memory of light that kept Mark from turning completely into a demon.
"Just answer me," Win insisted. His voice remained soft, yet it carried the unyielding weight of a King's command, brooking no further evasion.
The stubbornness of the man in his arms finally fractured Mark's resolve. A sad, weary smile tugged at his lips—a ghost of a smile that didn't reach his dark eyes. "I really don't know why I love you, Win. Or even how it happened," he confessed, his voice thinning. "I just know that I can't live without you. It's as simple and as terrifying as that."
He exhaled, and with that breath, the memories of his exile abroad rose like bitter, choking smoke between them. "When we parted... It was agony. I knew you were drowning in that place, but I was powerless. They forced me away. I spent every single night cursing my own name, terrified that in this horrific, sprawling world, I would never find my way back to your side."
"It was unbearable pain," Mark whispered, his grip tightening as he pulled Win into the hollow of his chest. This wasn't a performance; the tremble in his hands was real. "I spent every night in that freezing exile cursing my own name, terrified that I would never find my way back to you. I lived in a constant, waking nightmare, Win."
Mark's voice dropped to a jagged, visceral whisper. He was careful to keep the true darkness—the blood he'd spilled to ensure his return—hidden behind his teeth. He wanted to keep Win as innocent as a newborn lamb, untainted by the filth of the world Mark reigned over. "I would imagine you with someone else... touched by someone else... and the jealousy would burn through my core like acid. It felt more real than the very air I breathed. I would lie awake in the dark and think... What if you won't recognize me?"
A single, salty tear escaped Mark's eye—a genuine, painful crack in his armor. He pulled back, his eyes searching Win's face with a desperate, primal reverence. This was the only place Mark didn't have to be a devil. Here, with Win, he could finally be a man who was loved.
"Baby... I really can't live without you," he rasped, his heart laid bare on the silk sheets. "This is the only way I know how to love."
Win's eyes filled with shimmering pearls of water. He reached up, pressing a soft kiss to Mark's lips before burying himself in the Master's chest. "How could I not recognize you? How could I love anyone else? You were the only one who treated me like a human, Mark. You were the seed that gave me the strength to live one more day whenever I wanted to die."
Win's voice faltered. "I lived waiting for you, but..."
"But?" Mark asked, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"Babe..." Win stopped again, his lips trembling. He looked up, his eyes overflowing with a pain that he had tried so hard to hide. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry... that I let so many people touch me."
The words hit Mark like a physical blow. Before Win could say another syllable of that "shit," Mark crushed his lips against Win's, silencing the apology with a fierce, possessive kiss. He pulled back just enough to growl, "You are never allowed to speak about that again. Do you understand?"
"Why don't you hate me?" Win asked, his voice small and fragile, looking like a newborn lamb lost in a storm.
"Because I love you so much that I can't afford the luxury of hating you," Mark replied, his voice dropping an octave until it was a low, vibrating thrum.
But as the words left his lips, his face transformed. The lingering warmth of their intimacy vanished, wiped away by a cold, tectonic shift in his soul. The "Master" who had just been weeping was gone, replaced by a dry, dark, and predatory aura that felt like the shadow of a coming storm. He reached out, his giant, calloused hand cupping Win's face with a reverence that was almost painful. "Hate you?" he rasped, his voice thick with the darkness he usually kept hidden. "I don't hate you for what the world did while I wasn't there to burn it down. I hate myself for not being there to stop them. To me, you aren't 'touched,' Win. You are the only thing in this world that is still holy."
His smile didn't just fade; it died. His features hardened into a mask of lethal, absolute iron. This was the face that made kings tremble and empires fall—the face of a man who didn't see a lover's past, but a list of targets. His eyes, once shards of midnight, were now bottomless pits of calculated violence.
Mark didn't look at Win with pity; he looked through the room, his mind already miles away, mentally hunting down every ghost Win had just summoned. He was no longer a man comforting a lamb; he was the Sovereign Devil, calculating the cost of the blood he was about to spill for every hand that had ever dared to bruise his treasure.
..