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Summary
Though he prided himself on respect and restraint, Phainon brought out a whole new devil in him; it was something dangerous, something that made him lose all his inhibitions. Today, Mydei had won their spar, and was promptly rewarded with the sight of Phainon below him, chest caked with sweat and dirt. The mica specks made the already-blooming bruises sparkle beneath the Dawn Device.
His long fingers had practically covered the curve of Mydei’s waist completely, callouses rubbing just right against the soft, sensitive skin. He’d yielded right after, of course—but it was a little too reminiscent of Mydei’s deepest fantasies to ignore.
Mydei was only a man… a man with needs. So he’d calmly walked back to his chambers—never running—locked the door, dipped himself into his personal bath, and shoved his hand into his pants like a horny teenager.
Kremnoans never believed in uncontrollable circumstances. Fated mates? Hah! What a joke!
...Yet, what else could explain the constant emptiness in Mydei's chest, or the deep-seated obsession his instincts have with a certain Deliverer? Romantic tragedy always was Nikador's closest companion, after all.