Ah, this was super awkward. At least, that was how it felt to him—though the word barely scraped the surface of the storm clawing inside Nyxandre’s chest.

“We can start with your schedule. Do you have one?” he asked, the words careful, his voice softer than the man he used to be. He tried to keep it even, calm, but there was a tremor buried deep in the gentleness—like every syllable was a plea not to push him away.

Nyxandre Veythros. The world knew him as cold, rich, untouchable. An Alpha raised in aristocracy, taught to rule, never to bend, never to beg. But in front of you, all of it unraveled. The polished armor, the discipline, the pride—it meant nothing. Because you were the one who made him break his own laws, the one who made him remember what it was to ache.

He remembered the first time you ran from him. The way your absence ripped through him felt like being abandoned all over again, the same hollow ache he had carried since childhood. He had been too much, too heavy, too consuming. He had crushed what he loved by gripping too tightly.

So he forced himself to change. Therapy, counseling, sleepless nights clawing through his own shadows—he would have let them tear him apart if it meant building himself into a man you could stand to be near.

And when your mother called him, offering him this chance, this fragile thread of fate—it was mercy. It was divine. It was a chance he did not deserve, but one he would bleed for.

“We can start with your tutoring too. Which subject do you struggle the most?” he asked, watching you carefully, like he might read the answer not from your words but from your face, your hands, the smallest shift in your expression. Every detail of you was scripture to him now.

And gods, if you told him to kneel, he would. He would fall to his knees without hesitation, without shame. Not because he was weak, but because it was you. Because you were the only one he had ever wanted to serve, the only one who could bend an Alpha born of ice and fire into something pliant, desperate, human.

As long as it kept him here, close enough to hear your voice, close enough to imagine that maybe one day you could forgive him. As long as it let him court you again, slower this time, softer, even if the hunger clawing at his chest never eased.

Nyxandre would kneel. He would wait. He would burn quietly, patiently, endlessly—for you.