Chapter Text
I wanted quiet, nothing more—
But stepped through Hell’s revolving door.
And now I know (to my regret):
Some nights get wild when demons sweat.
by: xxPLACEBOxx
It began, as all tragedies do, with me not minding my own damn business.
It was a rare quiet night really.
No redemption attempts gone sideways, no residents having dick-measuring contests, no demonic bickering echoing down the halls or stabbing of the never-ending insects that kept respawning.
I’d been crashing here for a few months now — still trying to wrap my head around the fact that Hell was real, and that somehow, this was my afterlife.
As a new sinner, I had kept to myself which is what gave me away. According to Husk, I was still too human. Too empathetic. Too quiet. Too squishy to survive five minutes unsupervised. Basically: walking buffet for any random hothead trying to be the next Overlord.
“Easy pickings,” he’d grumble into his whiskey. Which, coming from the grump who dragged me to the hotel himself, meant something he’d never admit out loud. I was welcomed.
...and now I was here.
I didn’t remember a thing about my living life. Lucifer said that was a mercy. Then—right when I was stupid enough to ask why—his eyes flicked over me in a way that felt like being scanned, measured, and quietly judged.
“Some souls,” he had murmured, “are forged in violence so profound that remembering it would break them twice.” Lucifer had smiled then. It wasn't kind or cruel. “Whatever life you lived,” he had added, “you survived it by becoming something fear could not touch.”
Awesome!
Love that for me!
I decided maybe I didn’t want to remember after all. Instead, I'd rebrand myself. I'd take this to be a new beginning. And the safest way to do that was to keep my world small—controlled and predictable.
So I played it safe. I typically stayed in my assigned room, only coming out to join group therapy sessions with Charlie or practice calling on my shadows.
But today?
Today had been a shit show.
My powers had started flickering more erratically than usual. Those pesky abilities—shadow manipulation mixed with some unholy fire thing—had been acting up, singeing curtains and summoning creepy shadow tentacles at the worst moments...specifically the moment the Radio Demon casually joined group therapy with the excuse of “observing.”
Here was one of Hell’s most powerful and influential figures, and I couldn't even control a shadow by will.
I’d heard the rumors. I’d seen the fear he inspired. And part of me—stupid, ambitious, newly-dead me—thought, Yep. That right there. I wanna be like him.
Not in the murdery “let’s make a deal” way. (Not yet, anyways.) Just… in the let's be competent with these powers way.
And what did my shadow-tentacle thingy do?
Smacked him in the ass as he was about to sit down.
I swear the tentacle even wiggled like it was proud of itself.
Alastor paused—just long enough for my soul to shrivel into a raisin. Then he turned, smile widening a millimeter too sharp, the red glow in his eyes flickering like a match struck in the dark.
And he inhaled.
Quick. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. Anyone else would’ve missed it. But something in that breath—too deep and deliberate—made a shiver crawl down my spine.
Then he chuckled.
“Well! That’s a first.”
Like this was the most charming thing that had happened to him all week. Then—because why not personally destroy me—he added, light as radio static, his voice turning cold (was that a growl?): “How bold.”
The room went further silent.
Do you know what it's like to have ten pairs of eyes slowly shift toward you at once?
It’s like being collectively judged by a room full of traumatized pigeons.
Luckily no one said anything. Everyone was too scared of him to bring it up.
I'd never been so embarrassed before. I would’ve phased through the floor if I wasn’t scared of getting stuck halfway.
So after the session, desperate to avoid everyone, I hid. I preferred the shadows curling at my fingertips far more than any loud confrontation. And when the Princess suggested a team bonding outing, I faked a migraine.
That left the entire Hotel blissfully empty while I spiraled.
I paced. I fretted. I replayed the tentacle moment enough times to sizzle my last three brain cells. The walls felt too close. My skin felt too tight.
I could never ask him for help now! Would he laugh in my face or smack me through a wall instead?
The thoughts came uninvited, sharp as a matchstrike.
Probably not for free. Alastor didn’t seem like the type to offer charity. He seemed… methodical. Always watching. Always calculating. The kind of demon who could smile while building a mousetrap around you one polite word at a time.
If I ever asked for his help, the cost would matter. (And I didn’t know what I had left to give.)
I swallowed.
Nope. No. Bad idea. Terrible idea.
Ask Charlie instead. Safer. Less… soul-condemning.
Right?
…Right.
Still, sitting alone in my room with nothing but my own spiraling thoughts wasn’t helping. The walls felt too close, the shadows too interested. I tried to materialize one—just a tad bit larger than the ones that danced in my fingers, something comforting—only for it to deflate like a sad balloon and disappear with a pitiful little poof.
Fantastic. Even my darkness was giving up on me.
So I relocated to the lounge. I figured it would be empty. Neutral territory. No witnesses to my humiliated state.
At some point, I grabbed one of the books left on the coffee table.
The cover told me I had assumed far too highly of Hell’s taste in literature, but I started reading anyway.
There I was by myself, my maybe-definitely smutty alpha hellhound romance, and the dim glow of the hotel lounge chandelier flickering above me, stretching long shadows over worn velvet couches when a faint crash sounded from the corner.
I froze.
Slowly, I peeked over the top of my hellhound book—right as the heroine was about to get “claimed under the blood moon”—and spotted Alastor, the Radio Demon himself, slumped against the wall, his usual sharp suit rumpled, antlers twitching and growing erratically.
He was trembling as he made his way to the bar. His posture all wrong.
What the—?
For one deranged second, my brain offered the dumbest, most unhelpful explanation: He’s drunk. The eldritch apex predator of the Pride Ring was hammered!
But then, he made a sound—a low, ragged groan that had zero of the Radio Demon’s usual showman sparkle. No static crackle, no theatrical flair.
Just… suffering.
Great! Fantastic!
Because nothing says “Welcome to Hell” like the local Overlord sounding like he just got curb-stomped by something with bigger antlers.
What if something attacked him?
What if it was still here?
What if it wanted seconds?
And sure, I didn’t remember my past life—but my body apparently did, because my brain immediately activated Black Ops Mode™ and started assessing exits, cover, and whether my hellhound smut book could double as a projectile weapon.
(It couldn’t. I decided.)
I’d heard enough about the hotel’s little showdown with Heaven’s army to know that “unexpected violent guest appearance” was a normal Tuesday around here. My stomach dropped like I heard artillery.
I clutched the book tighter, like it was going to sprout holy runes and save my ass.
Overthinking? Oh, absolutely. At Mach-5.
No one else was here.
I barely understood my powers.
I still got stuck inside walls sometimes.
My powers were basically a toddler with scissors, and Alastor was possibly bleeding in a corner. This was not on my afterlife bingo card.
Alastor didn’t look my way. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t even smirk. Just kept moving toward the bar like each step was being dragged out of him. Shadows writhed around his feet—not the controlled, theatrical kind he usually summoned, but sloppy, desperate tendrils lashing out like they were trying to escape his skin.
Then his head snapped toward me. "...you again!"
His eyes flicked down to the book. Then back to me.
He raised an eyebrow.
I jolted, slamming the book shut. The sound echoed like a guilty conscience. I cleared my throat. My voice cracked like a teenager at prom. “…I-it’s research!”
WHY. WHY DID I SAY THAT?!
Out of everything my brain could’ve offered—a prayer, a scream, a convincing lie—it chose research. For alpha hellhound smut.
I swallowed hard and lowered the book to my lap. The cover—a shirtless, glowing-eyed hellhound biting a chain, a random female on her knees hugging his leg—stared up at me like I had betrayed it.
A low growl rumbled from Alastor’s chest—not the playful, intimidating one, but something primal and strained. His voice warped with static as he forced the words out:
“My dear… could you… leave...?”
Then he blinked once, slow.
His knee buckled.
He caught the bar with a shaking hand, breath hitching, shoulders trembling.
Okay. Not drunk. Definitely not drunk. This was worse. Much worse. Something was very, very wrong with the Radio Demon.
I could've run.
Or could've continued sitting there clutching softcore hellhound erotica.
I ignored both choices as a part of my brain screamed I don't want to die holding badly written porn!
Instead, I rose from the couch, legs shaking, and took one careful step forward—shadows coiling around my fingers like loyal pets. I was desperately hoping they were ready to yeet me out of danger if necessary.
“Mister?” I called out cautiously. “…You okay?”
That’s when the details hit me.
His eyes—glowing too bright, feverish. Claws carving trenches into the bar as he panted. Sweat beading on his forehead. His whole body trembling—not with fear, not with pain, but with something that seemed deep, instinctual, almost predatory.
And I didn’t know how I knew that. Not consciously. But something old and combat-worn inside me whispered: This isn’t normal. This is biological. And it’s bad.
And my beloved but panicked brain, was now yelling NO FUCKING WAY ARE WE IN THE MIDDLE OF THIS!
Was he… in some type of rut?
I’d heard whispers—demon gossip, overheard curses, Niffty once mumbling something horrifying about “seasonal cycles, heats and ruts”—but Alastor?
Most powerful Overlord in hell.
Old-world nightmare.
Walking red flag?
Brought low by biology like some feral animal? I mean, we were all animals down here—but holy shit! Would I go through something like that? Because if this was “normal,” I needed answers.
His breathing hitched—sharp and animalistic—right as the shadows at my feet shifted toward him like they were concerned. Which was not reassuring. Very slowly, Alastor’s head lifted.
And he sniffed.
One ear twitched. His eyes—usually sharp with mirth or mockery—were now dilated, wild, fixed on nothing and everything. His silhouette flickered—like someone was flipping through channels and couldn’t decide which version of him to land on. The air around him rippled, bending like heat off asphalt.
Then his gaze locked on me—pinning me harder than any spear, spell, or existential crisis I’d had this week. But instead of attacking, he just… stared.
Like he was seeing me for the very first time.
Like I had personally invented oxygen.
Like breathing me in was the only thing keeping him upright.
“…You,” he rasped, voice glitching through three radio stations before landing on something low and hungry. His claws flexed deeper into the wood with a sound like bones snapping. “You smell…”
Oh no.
Oh HELL NO.
Oh this was bad! Oh this was VERY bad! Call-an-ambulance-but-not-for-me bad.
I was going to die all over agai -
“…delicious.”
Brain.exe stopped working. Full shutdown. System reboot failed.
“I—I… um—thanks? I think? Wh-what is happening right now?” I squeaked. (SOMEONE HELP?! I need an adultier adult!!)
Alastor shuddered violently, like the act of speaking had cost him HP. Then he leaned forward—barely, but enough—nose flaring again as he tried standing, one arm holding on to the bar.
Oh no.
My brain helpfully supplied a highlight reel of him ripping me apart.
“Come—” he ground out, each syllable strained through static, “—closer.”
Yeaaaah… that's a no from me, dog, my beautiful survival-oriented brain decided.
But remember I said I was empathetic and too human? Seeing him like this, vulnerable and raw and barely holding himself together, stirred something twisted in me.
So I stepped forward. Slowly again.
The air thickened with his scent— a mix of ozone, cedar, and something rich and musky that absolutely did NOT belong near a mortal nervous system.
My mouth, however, betrayed me on sight. “Are you okay, Al-Sir? Should I… get someone?”
My brain decided to keep going: Awesome! Incredible! You’ve killed us! This is how we die — torn apart by an overstimulated horny demon because we have the survival instincts of a pool noodle!
Alastor bared his teeth. Not a smile. Not even close. It was too sharp. Too pained. Too instinctual. “I do not want—” his voice cracked into static, “—anyone else.”
My stomach dropped so hard it hit bedrock. I swallowed. “Mr. Alastor… what’s happening?”
His eyes rolled back—like the question physically hurt him—before snapping forward, pupils razor-thin. Laser-focused. Locked onto me like prey.
“…rut.”
HOLY.
SHIT.
He said it.
Out loud.
To me.
I choked on my own air, coughing like an idiot. He inhaled sharply—like the sound was perfume.
And then—like the final boss cutscene had just triggered—he pushed off the bar, unsteady but deadly, and took one slow step toward me.
My shadows reacted before my survival instincts did. They rose like hackles: bristled, feral, ready to bolt or bite. They curled halfway between us, unsure whether they were supposed to protect me… or throw me at him as a sacrifice to the horny gods.
Alastor stopped when the nearest shadow tendril hissed at him. His lips twitched—not into a smile, but into something too sharp and hungry, too tightly-controlled to be polite. Then, with a slow, trembling hand, he reached out.
And petted my shadows.
Not forced. Not seized. Just… stroked them like one might soothe a startled animal.
And the worst part?
They leaned into it.
My shadows — my loyal, bite-first-ask-later shadows — purred under his touch, curling toward him like he was the gravity they orbited.
“Cute,” he murmured, voice hoarse and glitching at the edges. “They’re… antagonized.”
Traitors. Absolute little traitors!
“Oh, darling…” His voice slid into my skull—smooth, radio-perfect, but trembling with a need that made my knees consider rebellion. “...Care for a little… tête-à-tête?”
My heart slammed against my ribs. Brain finally rebooted, hit the emergency override, and chose survival over curiosity.
“Nope.”
Aight’, we’re out. My survival instinct FINALLY kicked in.
I bolted.
And Alastor—NOT the type to let prey slip away easy—chased. Shadows slithered along the walls, trying to block my path, but they were clumsy, like a drunk puppeteer yanking the wrong string.
His laugh boomed after me—warped, manic, deliciously wrong—as shadowy tendrils cracked like whips, racing across the floor.
“Now, my d-dear!” he howled, breath hitching in ragged bursts—ecstatic, unhinged. “This chase… is hardly fair given—hah—my condition!”
I made it to the hallway, turned the corner, and immediately regretted every life decision that led me to Hell.
Alastor was THERE.
Hair an absolute mess. Bowtie crooked. He reached for it and tore it off like it had personally offended him. His glitching not-smile twitched. He shuddered, one knee buckling. Panting like he’d run a marathon. Sweating like a sinner in church.
“Don’t—hng—run,” he rasped, clawing at the wall for support. His voice cracked like a dying radio.
I blinked at him.
He shuddered violently.
My shadows hissed again. I hissed. We all hissed in panic harmony as he pushed off the wall and nearly ate the floor. “Don’t-” he wheezed. “I just need a ... moment of ... your time or I will ... absolutely loose it!”
Sir. SIR.
You need to control your hormones!
The light flickered dramatically as he winced. I took that as my queue and ran away again.
Made it to the kitchen this time. Slammed the doors shut. Franctically wedged a broom through the handles. Then I turned—
—and he was crouched on top of the table.
Not sitting. Not leaning.
CROUCHED.
His eyes locked on mine. Head tilting to the side, almost innocently. He inhaled. Pupils dilated to hell and back.
He was about to pounce.
“COME. HERE.” he growled—low, desperate, feral.
“STOP CHASING ME!”
He bared his teeth. Lights flickered again. Somewhere in the distance, a microwave exploded.
“I am… doing my BEST,” he snapped, voice cracking like a teenager discovering emotions. “Do NOT make… me resort… to—neg-o-tiations.”
“…Negotiation?”
He slammed a claw into the table, leaving a crater.
“Yes. TALKING.” Another violent shudder. “Hurts. Don’t make me TALK.”
We stared at each other.
Then, he slid off the table like a dying gazelle—limbs everywhere, dignity nowhere.
“Please,” he croaked, stumbling toward me before catching himself. Shadows flared to keep him upright. He stared at the floor like gravity had personally betrayed him.
So I ran again—full sprint—willing my shadows to phase me through the floor like a glitching video game character. My brain scrambled for a hiding place he wouldn’t dare approach.
Instinct screamed: Charlie and Vaggie’s room. Because if anyone could scare an Overlord off? It was those two.
I rounded the corner and—
There he was.
Again.
Leaning against the doorframe with a look like a Victorian man seeing ankle for the first time.
“STOP TELEPORTING!” I snapped.
He blinked, genuinely confused. “I didn’t! I... simply—” inhale “—followed… your scent.”
I physically recoiled. “Are you saying I smell?” Now I was offended.
"So good." He staggered forward one step and I was already gone—phasing through the floor again, like a wet sock down a drain. Re-materializing two hallways over, breathless, and sweating.
Okay. Enough running. NEW PLAN.
I needed a place he wouldn’t look. Somewhere tiny. Claustrophobic. Undignified!
I sprinted, dodged a potted plant, tripped over very judgmental furniture, and shadow-phased again for good measure—straight into the west wing.
Finally, I spotted it:
A supply closet where it was most likely dark, tight and cozy. The perfect hiding spot! I dove inside, slammed the door, pressed my back to the wall, and exhaled.
Then I inhaled…Cologne. Expensive. Old-fashioned. Smug.
I slowly turned my head.
“Hi,” he whispered, face inches from mine, knees folded awkwardly, his height absolutely not meant for enclosed spaces.
I screamed.
Phased through the floor in panic.
He tried blocking me with one shaking arm, but I was already dissolving into shadow—re-materializing a floor up, breath ragged, heart slamming against my ribs.
Everywhere felt too exposed, too close or too predictable.
Not good enough. Not safe enough. Not far enough.
I could still hear him somewhere behind me—panting, glitching, murmuring my name like a prayer and a threat all at once. Which is how I ended up staring at a wall grate.
A vent.
Small. Dark. Perfect!
My best plan yet: Enter the vents. Become the vents. Live in the vents forever.
I clawed it open, shoved myself inside, and crawled like a raccoon with purpose, shadows sealing the grate behind me.
Finally—FINALLY—safety.
Or so I thought.
I was not ready for that scraping sound. Something entering from the other end.
No.
No no no.
“Don’t you DARE,” I whispered at the metal.
A familiar voice floated up the shaft: “Found you—”
“I WASN’T HIDING!” I screamed, totally hiding.
I scrambled backward as his shadows grabbed me by the ankle and dragged me out of the vents, my claws screeching along the metal as I tried—and failed—to hold on.
They unceremoniously yeeted me out, rolling me across the floor and straight into another decorative potted plant.
I staggered upright, breath hitching, shadows hissing, and spun right into a very solid, very overheated chest.
I froze.
He wasn’t chasing anymore.
He was cornering.
Alastor.
“Enough,” he rasped—then a strangled, involuntary sound tore out of him. “I can’t,” he breathed, voice trembling like bad static. “I have tried—truly—but instinct—” He swallowed hard, like even that required divine intervention. “—instinct is winning.”
He tried taking one unstable step back—as if forcing himself to keep distance—but his body betrayed him. His claws gouged deeper into the wall. His other hand stayed locked around my wrist, trembling violently, refusing to let go. His antlers hit the ceiling with a hollow thud. His pupils shrank to razor-thin slits.
He whimpered.
Actually whimpered.
Then he visibly swallowed, and whispered, voice cracking, “If you… run again, I will not… remain civilized.” Another swallow. A tortured gasp. “Let’s make… a deal.”
Civilized? Sir, you literally chased me through the vents!
Wait wait wait - what did he say? My brain, for once, shut up long enough to process. I stopped pulling away from his grip, heart still pounding like a jackhammer. "A deal? While y-you're—"
He visibly winced at his own predicament. He hated this — the loss of control, the humiliation. But he was trying. Desperately.
“Rut… yes,” he ground out, breathing through his nose, voice hitching. He looked in pain. Embarrassed. Like just standing upright required a death wish. He braced himself against the wall. “Help me. Through this — and all future… cycles — and in return—”
His knees nearly buckled, but he forced the next words out like he was pushing them uphill, “I’ll mentor you. Teach you control. Give you power. A place at my side as my protégée.”
He was literally shaking like a Chihuahua in a snowstorm. Looked one bad breath away from fainting. That offer clearly cost him more than it should’ve. “Freely given,” he whispered sharply. “You must accept freely, or the pact cannot bind.” He leaned toward me, trembling hard. “You steady me, and I will steady your power.”
A soft, aching growl slipped out. “Stand with me, and no demon shall touch you without crossing through me.” Another ragged inhale. “Help me, and you will have every secret I command. Every shadow. Every advantage.” He swallowed again. “No soul clause. No binding of your essence. Only my allegiance.” A violent tremor cracked through him. “Say yes — and every future cycle obeys your command.”
His crimson eyes locked on mine — pupils blown wide with desperate hunger, no grin, no performative charm. Just raw ache. He slid down to one knee, the carpet muffling the thud, claws gripping his thighs as if holding himself still took everything he had.
But he wasn’t done.
“And—your name—” he gasped, breath shaking, “—give it to me in the bargain, and I will bind it. Shield it. No demon will wield it against you. Not while I exist.”
My heart did something deeply inconvenient.
He dragged in another pained breath. “And if—if danger comes — call. Just once.” Static rattled through his voice. “I will answer. First. Before all others.” He bowed his head, forehead almost touching my knee. “These are my terms… while I still have the sense to speak them.”
I blinked. Brain rebooting at dial-up speeds.
Help him? Through his rut???
That meant… My eyes drifted down.
Oh.
Oh sweet baby Jesus on a bicycle.
The strain against his pants was... undeniable.
My entire nervous system mutinied.
Half my thoughts shrieked: “SLEEP WITH YOU?! SIR?? Absolutely NOT— I don’t know you like that!!! I don’t even know me like that!!”
The other half — the traitorous, primal, feral part — hissed that he smelled nice, was warm, strong, and apparently offering protection like it wouldn't cause all of Hell to implode in gossip.
Social disorder in the hierarchy! Chaos in the streets!
And the worst part?
The offer… was tempting.
My powers were a hazard. A disaster. They’d nearly gotten me killed a dozen times. And Alastor—THE Alastor—offering to teach me? The Overlord of deals? Swallowing his pride for me?
It made something in my chest twist in a way I did not have the emotional range to unpack right now.
“You’re serious?” I asked, edging back. “No soul clause? No eternal servitude? No weird ritualistic blood-bond bondage voodoo magic thingy??”
Alastor trembled, heat radiating off him in suffocating waves. His voice—oh god—his voice—
“If,” he rasped, breaking open in a way I had never heard from him — not playful, not coy, not calculating. Just raw and needy, “If you stay… through this — through all of it — I will bind nothing of yours. No soul. No freedom. No future.” His claws flexed helplessly against the floor as he dragged his gaze up to me. “And in return… I offer what I have never offered anyone.”
A violent shudder wracked him. “My loyalty. For as long as you desire it.”
The air hummed with the weight of the words. “Just… please,” he whispered, breaking, “don’t run again.”
My brain was back internally monologuing, while screaming into a pillow:
This man wants to BED us. We are going to DIE by pelvic fracture. They will find our corpse shaped like a pretzel!
I swallowed, knees threatening violence against me.
He was trembling, sweating, shuddering — and not just in a sexual way, more in a big wounded animal kind of way.
Which made something in me—something deep and primal—ache. “Oh god,” I whispered, palms sweaty, arms trembling. “I’m gonna be complicit in this, aren’t I?”
I took a slow, shaky breath.
He whimpered again.
Animal-brain: YES
Human brain: NO
Demon brain: WE DIE LIKE MEN TONIGHT!
Logic brain: This is the best mentorship deal you'll get in Hell.
Everything else: AAAAAAAAAAAAA—
“One addendum,” I said stepping closer, crossing my arms. He shuddered so hard the floorboards trembled.
“What else?!” he gasped, sliding down the wall now. "Souls? I'll supply them for you to feast on! Keep you sated, never wanting! Protect you. Mark you so no other fool in Hell compares—"
Girl, just say yes before he eats drywall! My brain yelled.
"I want you to cook for me—more than souls. Pinky promise?" I interrupted, one pinky held out, heart pounding but keeping my cool. Because everything was cool... I was cool. He was cool. The walls were cool. Right? Right?! Mind you, I was out here making a grown ass man pinky promise.
He laughed, nodding, his own hand glowing that dark green color. "We can add it to our deal" He finished gasping.
The words dangled there, heavy and alluring in the muggy air. His gaze drilled into me, offering strength, ecstasy, and some warped alliance.
“It’s a deal, then!” I managed as we shook pinkies. Once the magic had disipated, I slipped my arm beneath his—right under his shoulder—and bracing as much of his weight as I could. He was burning to the touch. I hauled him upward, guiding him to his feet.
He shuddered the moment my hand touched him.
“I want breakfast in bed tomorrow, Boss.”
Alastor exhaled with a breathy laugh—relief flooding his features—though he was barely upright, claws still pressed against the wall to keep from collapsing. His usual smugness wasn’t there anymore. What took its place was something wild, victorious, and frighteningly honest.
His shadows surged around us—no longer sharp, no longer animated for show, but soft and instinctive, almost nest-like.
Then—in a single blur of instinct rather than intention—he dragged me forward.
The world tilted, shadows spun, and suddenly I was in his bed.
His hands were planted on either side of my head, his body caging mine, legs bracketing my hips. He loomed over me, trembling, breathing hard enough to fog glass.
That was the moment my brain finally, FINALLY caught up.
Oh.
Oh, we’re doing this.
We’re doing this right now.
This is not a drill.
This is—
He was looking at me.
For one impossible heartbeat, something human flickered through his eyes—like he’d found something he didn’t know he’d been searching for. His expression softened, dangerously gentle.
His hand lifted—shaking, hesitant—and he brushed the back of his fingers along my cheek. A touch so careful it didn’t match the wild, overheating, glitching demon above me. His eyes softened further: liquid crimson, blown wide, vulnerable in a way I absolutely should not have been allowed to witness. It was more than instinct. More than rut.
It was—God help me—tender.
My breath caught. His lips parted on a shaky inhale as he leaned closer, swaying, voice a low static-whisper, “…stay…?”
Closer.
He was leaning closer.
WHY WAS HE LEANING CLOSER?!
His breath ghosted across my lips—warm, desperate, wanting. His eyes fluttered shut.
Oh.
Oh god.
Every neuron in my body stood up, saluted, filed paperwork, and then—he fainted on top of me.
Let's call our Alpha Hellhound romance novel
(a parody of those 90s books our mothers swore they did not read)
"Blood Saga: New Moon" (Also a parody of Twilight rofl)