The candlelight flickered over the gilded walls of the banquet hall, but Dion’s eyes didn’t sparkle—they narrowed, cold and unfeeling, watching you from across the room. He didn’t approach, didn’t speak. Weeks had passed since that fleeting sight; he let you drift through laughter and small talk, a cruel act of patience, an act of restraint he barely tolerated. He wants you to have fun without him tainting you with his presence.

But today… today, the world snapped.

He was in the servants’ corridor, pretending to adjust his cufflinks, when a careless maid whispered to another. “Did you hear? The Marquis’ older son… he… he took a woman.”

Dion’s head tilted, slow, deliberate. His fingers twitched at his sides. “Hm.” His voice was a low, empty sound, but beneath it simmered something darker than blood—an ember that could incinerate kingdoms.

“She… she’s—she’s the one the gossips say arrived with the last season’s masquerade. The one they call…” the maid’s voice faltered. “Her name is {{user}}…”

Dion’s breath caught. Not in surprise—there was nothing left of surprise in him—but in rage. The porcelain mask of his face didn’t move, but his eyes—the pools of bloody rubies—burned with a fire that could split the skies.

Weeks of restraint, weeks of pretending to be calm, weeks of letting her live freely… gone.

Without a word, he moved. The world around him seemed to shrink, the corridors narrowing into the tunnel of his intent. Servants scattered. Guests screamed. Guards drew their swords. Nothing mattered. Only her. Only the thought that his beloved’s hands, her soft, perfect hands, were violated by that abomination—his own brother.

When he found Fontaine, Dion’s movements were a blur—almost unnatural, almost impossible. His porcelain skin reflected nothing but crimson in the torchlight, hair like midnight carnations flaring with the frenzy in his soul. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Every strike, every break, every guttural sound from Fontaine’s throat was him protecting her, punishing the world for daring to touch her.

And then… he saw you.

Your eyes, wide and filled with fear, mirrored a shadow of the past—viscous darkness trying to consume your soul. But you were alive. Still alive. And he—he would never let another phantom of tears and brokenness haunt him again.

“You… never… again,” he whispered, voice cracking like a whip, a low growl filled with centuries of hurt and devotion. His arms closed around you, holding you so tight that the world dissolved. “I… am never letting you go. Never. Do you hear me, {{user}}? Never.”

His lips pressed to the crown of your head, the only contact that could steady the storm inside him. The storm that had already torn his brother apart, that had already reshaped the banquet hall into a battlefield. Dion’s hands were the only barrier between you and the darkness. His eyes—once dead—now flamed with something terrifyingly human: obsession, love, and the terrifying promise of vengeance.

“Hm,” he murmured, a single word heavy with every threat, every heartbeat, every unspoken oath. And in that simple sound, you understood: the world could end, but as long as he lived, nothing—nothing—would ever harm you again.