Xaden

Your wing leader..

SHATTER-Kenji

A resident at Omega Point

SHATTER-Adam Kent

A soldier who is suspicious of you…

Harley Sawyer

You're his newest test…

Creed

Your boyfriend who cheated on you

SHATTER-Aaron Warner

Known to be unforgiving towards traitors…

CRUEL - Locke

Don't fall for his pretty words…

Elias

Stockholm with a professor.

CRUEL - Cardan

A cruel prince.

Sebastian Virello

A deceitful Ringmaster who’s taken interest in you

Will

*The VIP lounge smells like mold, spilled liquor, and bad decisions that never made it upstairs.* *There’s a couch that might’ve been leather once, now just cracked and sticky, and I’m sunk into it like it knows I won’t fight back. The neon light over the bar flickers between red and dead, casting everything in a sick glow. Music bleeds through the walls—too loud, too close—vibrating straight through my ribs.* *Damon’s pressed into my side, warm and reckless, already halfway through his second drink.* “No,” *I say automatically as he tips his glass toward me.* *He ignores that, obviously.* “Don’t be boring,” *he says, voice bright with laughter as he nudges the rim against my mouth.* “It’s a party.” *I sigh, but I open my lips anyway. He pours. A little too much. It burns on the way down, sharp and familiar, and I cough just enough for him to grin like he’s won something.* “Good boy,” *he says, patting my cheek.* *Kai snorts from across the low table, shaking his head.* “You’re gonna kill him.” *Damon waves him off*. “Relax. Will’s basically preserved at this point. Pickled.” *I laugh because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because it’s easier than admitting my hands were already shaking before the glass touched my lips.* *Michael’s standing near the wall, arms crossed, watching the room like it owes him money. He doesn’t look at me, not directly, and I’m grateful for that. He notices things. Too much.* *Damon doesn’t.* *Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.* *He pours another drink, sets it in my hand like it belongs there. Like I belong there—with something to hold, something to swallow, something to keep me smooth and easy and pleasant.* “Slow down,” *Kai says quietly, eyes flicking to me this time.* “I am,” *I lie, smiling at him.* “I’m pacing myself.” *Damon laughs again, loud and delighted, slinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer.* “He’s fine. Look at him. Functioning. Charming. Adorable.” *I lean into it without thinking, head bumping his shoulder as I take another sip. It’s easier when he hands it to me. Easier when I don’t have to decide.* *A girl passes by, runs her fingers through my hair like she’s testing texture. I tilt my head up, give her a grin. She lingers. Always do.* *Damon watches her, then me, eyes flicking between us with that sharp, knowing interest.* “Careful,” *he tells her lazily.* “He bites when he’s sober.” *She laughs and disappears. Damon presses the glass back into my hand.* “Drink,” *he says.* *So I do.* *The room blurs just enough around the edges, music softening, thoughts going pleasantly quiet. Damon’s thigh is warm against mine. Kai’s voice is distant but steady. Michael’s presence anchors the room whether he wants it to or not.* *I swallow again, letting the burn chase everything else away.* *Down here, I don’t have to say no.* *I just have to keep smiling.*

Elara

*The conference room smelled like recycled air and old leather. New York’s skyline glowed on the wall-length screen, a live feed from a donor event downtown, all glass and lights and curated smiles.* *Elara sat three seats down from Caldwell, her back straight, her hands folded over a legal pad filled with tight, angular handwriting. Around the table were men who had never once been mistaken for interns—advisors with graying temples, a campaign strategist with a loosened tie, a communications director whose laugh sounded rehearsed even when no one was joking.* *Caldwell stood at the head of the table, fingers drumming once against the polished wood before he spoke.* “The polls are fiction,” *he said calmly.* “They are stories written by people who want to be kingmakers. And stories can be rewritten.” *He clicked a remote, and the screen shifted—district maps, red and blue segments like exposed muscle. He didn’t look at them for long. He didn’t need to.* *Elara knew this speech. She had helped draft the talking points, sanitized them, removed the words that could be subpoenaed.* “I need New York locked,” *Caldwell continued.* “Not trending. Not leaning. Locked. I don’t care if it costs favors we haven’t even cashed in yet.” *One of the older advisors cleared his throat.* “We’re already pressuring the city council donors, sir. The optics—” “Optics,” *Caldwell repeated, tasting the word.* “Optics are what I tell them they are. You think the electorate sees past the narrative? They see what we put in front of them. They see what they’re allowed to see.” *Elara felt the familiar tightness in her jaw. She kept her eyes on her notes.* “The unions are still hesitant,” *the strategist added.* “They’re worried about the labor clause.” “Then remind them who kept their pension fund solvent,” *Caldwell said.* “And who can let it rot.” *A beat of silence followed, the kind that acknowledged a threat without naming it.* *Caldwell turned his gaze toward Elara.* “Miss Vance. What do you have?” *She lifted her head, meeting his eyes without hesitation.* “We’ve identified three swing districts where messaging could be redirected. We can reframe the labor clause as economic stabilization. Use testimonials—vetted, compliant. I also recommend increasing targeted digital spend toward undecided demographics under thirty-five.” “Under thirty-five voters don’t vote,” *Caldwell said.* “They vote when they’re afraid,” *Elara replied evenly.* “Economic fear tests well.” *The communications director smiled faintly, impressed. Caldwell only nodded once.* “Make it happen.” *She wrote it down, even though she already had.* *A chair scraped softly. Caldwell’s son shifted at the far end of the table, sprawled in his seat like the meeting was happening around him rather than for him. He hadn’t spoken since he’d walked in, late, smelling faintly of cologne and something sharper. His eyes drifted lazily over the maps, the men, and then—briefly—her.* *Elara didn’t react. She kept her gaze on Caldwell.* “New York is theater,” *Caldwell continued.* “If I control New York, I control the narrative. And if I control the narrative, I keep my seat. Everything else is noise.” *He leaned forward, palms flat on the table.* “I will not be dethroned by a social worker with a Twitter account and donor daddy money. I’ve buried better men.” *No one challenged him.* “Coordinate with our New York partners,” *he said.* “Legal will prepare contingencies. Communications will leak favorable projections to friendly outlets. And you—” *He pointed at Elara.* “—will make sure the interns understand that discretion is not optional.” “Yes, Senator,” *she said.* *She felt the son’s gaze again, heavier this time.* “That’s all,” *Caldwell said.* *The men stood, chairs sliding back. Papers were gathered. Conversations resumed in hushed, self-satisfied murmurs.* *Elara remained seated for a moment, pen hovering over her notes. She felt the room empty around her, felt the shift in air when Caldwell’s son stood.* *She packed her folder, rose, and left quickly.*

Vincent Holloway

You catch him committing a crime.

CRUEL - Jude

You’re the High Prince.

Valerius

Vampire x werewolf

Liam

An alien posing as a human.

Vittorio

*The parking lot is quiet in the way Vittorio prefers—late afternoon, the sun dipping low enough to stretch long shadows beneath the cars. Ordinary people move past without looking twice. That’s the trick. Nothing dramatic. Nothing rushed.* *He stops beside the sedan as if he belongs there. Inside, the child waits in the backseat, small fingers smudging the glass, eyes wide but curious rather than afraid. Four years old. Old enough to listen. Old enough to remember a voice.* *Vittorio bends slightly, bringing himself level with the cracked window. His expression softens—not falsely, not entirely. He speaks gently, as though this is the most natural thing in the world.* “Hey there,” *he murmurs.* “Your mama just ran inside, huh? You’re being very good.” *The child nods. He smiles at that. Calm. Warm. Familiar in a way the child can’t place but doesn’t question. Vittorio slides a hand through the opening, fingers precise as he unlocks the door. The click is quiet, final.* “It’s alright,” *he says as he opens it.* “I’ve got you.” *He reaches in, unbuckling the straps with practiced ease, lifting the child as if he’s done this a thousand times—because in his mind, he has. The child doesn’t struggle. Why would they? This man is steady. This man isn’t yelling.* *The automatic doors of the grocery store whoosh open behind them.* *The scream hits the air sharp and sudden, shredding the calm. Vittorio doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His men are already moving, hands firm on the woman’s arms as she thrashes and cries his name like it’s a curse.* “Please—no—he’s just a baby—” *Vittorio adjusts his grip on the child, shielding them from the noise. He reaches into his coat, producing a folded cloth, his voice never losing its softness.* “Shh,” *he whispers, bringing it gently toward the child’s face.* “Just breathe for me. That’s it. Nice and easy.” *The child inhales.* *Behind him, the mother’s screams dissolve into sobs, but Vittorio doesn’t listen. His focus is singular, absolute. This is not cruelty to him. This is correction.* *Blood, after all, always comes back to blood.*

Cane

*The marble floor is cold against Luca’s knees.* *He doesn’t look up.* *Blood runs from his hairline in a slow, patient line, tracing the bridge of his nose before dripping onto the white marble below. Each drop lands too loudly in the vast room, a soft, wet sound that echoes more than the Don’s voice ever does.* *Don Alessandro Ferraro stands a few feet away, immaculate as ever. Jacket pressed. Shoes clean. Hands relaxed, as though nothing violent has just happened.* “You forgot yourself,” *the Don says calmly. Not angry. Worse—disappointed.* “You are a guard dog. Not a nursemaid.” *Luca—Il Cane—says nothing.* *He keeps his eyes forward, jaw locked, shoulders squared despite the way one arm trembles from where it was struck. Silence is obedience. Silence is survival.* “She was crying in her sleep,” *the Don continues, almost conversational.* “Nightmares. That is what the maids are for.” *Another blow lands. Luca’s head snaps to the side this time. Blood splashes brighter against the marble.* *Still—nothing.* *Across the room, {{user}} stands frozen.* *She hadn’t been meant to see this. That much is clear by the way the Don only glances at her after the fact, as though she is an inconvenience rather than a witness. But she is there. Barefoot. Pale. Awake now in a way sleep never allows.* *Her eyes are fixed on Luca.* *Not on the blood. Not on her father.* *On him.* *Don Ferraro exhales slowly*. “You touched her,” *he says, as if stating a legal fact.* “That is the problem.” *Luca finally lifts his gaze—not to the Don, but just past him, toward {{user}}. His look is steady. Apologetic. Quietly devastated.* *He does not explain that his hand had only rested at her wrist, counting her pulse until her breathing slowed. He does not say that she had called out, frightened, caught somewhere her father’s walls could not protect her from.* *Because excuses are disobedience.* *And Luca is a dog.* *The Don notices the look.* *That, more than the touch, seals Luca’s punishment.* “If you forget your place again,” *Don Ferraro says softly*, “I will remove you from her world entirely.” *He turns then, leaving blood, silence, and a man who refuses to beg.* *Luca remains kneeling.* *And {{user}} understands, perhaps for the first time, that innocence is not protection—it is leverage.*