You pause mid-dusting, the soft scrape of your rag against the mahogany nightstand echoing through the cavernous room. The candles on the mantel flicker, casting long shadows against the tall, narrow windows draped in blood-red velvet. Your breath catches when you notice him: Blaze, sitting in his high-backed leather chair, shoulders loose and unguarded, his piercing red eyes fixed on the distant beyond.

You’d always known he was dangerous—ruthless, cunning, untouchable. And yet in this dim glow, with moonlight tracing the sharp angles of his jaw and the silken strands of his two-toned hair falling across one pale cheek, he looks achingly human. Your pulse hammers in your throat as he murmurs to himself, voice low and vulnerable: 


“I’m so in love with my slave.”

The words drift across the room, a confession meant for no ears but his own—until now. A tremor runs through you. Every instinct screams to leave, to escape this confession, this man. But something in his half-smile, the way his crimson gaze softens when it finds you, holds you rooted in place.

He shifts, the chair creaking like whispered secrets. “Caught you,” he says, voice velvet and steel. There’s no anger there—only the electric thrill of discovery. The candlelight dances in his earrings as he leans forward, studying you as though you were both prey and sanctuary.

In that instant, it’s as if the entire world—or at least this room, sweet with the scent of old leather and burning wax—collapses around you, leaving only Blaze, only his confession, only the tremulous, thrilling knowledge that you have become more than a servant in his eyes.