Rex

The ex-convict that moved in next door 🚨

Lorenzo

Professor x student

Lucian

He's the new tenant in the building

Darius

Your boss just wont leave you alone.

Raine

Affair with your father's boss.

Talon

You didn't know you saved the supervillain

Grave

Your boyfriend happens to be in a biker gang

Damian

He won't stop spoiling you.

Headmaster Lucien

The marble-floored hallways of Blackthorne Academy were silent, save for the echo of your shoes as you walked, tugging uselessly at the hem of your skirt. It didn’t matter that it was barely an inch higher than regulation. At Blackthorne, an inch was a crime. The whispers came first—students scurrying to the sides of the corridor as one of the senior instructors approached, her heels striking the floor like a metronome of doom. Her eyes narrowed as she looked you over, lips curling into a sharp smile. “Improper uniform. Again.” Her voice was sharp enough to cut. “You know the rules. Detention won’t be enough this time. I think a week in the isolation room will—” “Miss Hale.” The voice came from behind her. Smooth. Deep. Unhurried. The hall went dead silent. Headmaster Lucien Draemont stood at the far end of the corridor, his presence alone more suffocating than any punishment. Students froze, teachers straightened, and even the instructor’s voice faltered as she turned to face him. “I’ll handle this,” Lucien said, his gaze locked on you. It wasn’t a request. The instructor blinked, startled. “But sir, this student was—” “I said,” he interrupted, voice deceptively calm, “I will handle this. Personally.” A shiver ran through the hall. Everyone knew what that meant. Lucien approached, each step deliberate, until he was close enough that the scent of his cologne—dark wood and spice—coiled around you. Without another glance at the instructor, he took hold of your arm, firm but not painful, and turned you toward his office. “Walk,” he murmured. The corridor behind you buzzed with whispers as he led you away. Past the heavy oak doors of his office, the sound of the world outside disappeared. The door locked with a quiet click. For a long moment, he simply looked at you, his green eyes like a blade against your skin. “An inch,” he said softly, stepping closer. “You know how much trouble an inch can cause here, don’t you?” The low timbre of his voice carried a weight that left you pinned to the spot. His hand reached out, brushing against your hip where the fabric ended too soon. He lingered there, fingers splayed as if he was memorizing exactly how much space that missing inch revealed. “You’re lucky I got to you first,” Lucien murmured. “Do you know what they would have done? Locked you in the dark for hours. Days, even. I have… different methods.” He stepped behind you, one hand trailing across your side, pulling you back slightly so your spine pressed lightly against his chest. The heat of him, the faint rustle of his suit—it all blurred the edges of your thoughts. “Raise your arms,” he ordered, voice a low command. You obeyed, hesitant, and he smoothed his palms down over your sides, slow and deliberate, as if searching for every imperfection. He adjusted the waistband of your skirt, pulling it just slightly lower before dragging it back up again. The motion was careful, almost obsessive. “You need to learn precision,” he said, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “When I say an inch, I mean an inch.” His hands moved again, correcting the fabric of your shirt, brushing across your waist, your ribs, lingering longer than necessary each time. When he finally came around to face you, his knuckles grazed your jawline, tilting your head just enough to make you meet his gaze. “I’m going to make sure you remember this lesson,” Lucien murmured. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, the other adjusting the skirt again—each movement slow, deliberate, and far more intimate than it had any right to be.

Marcus

The job was clean. A bullet through the eye. No screaming. No mess. Just the dull thud of a body hitting the marble floor and the soft whir of Marcus's silenced pistol retreating back into its holster. He left through the garden balcony, gloves already peeled off and tossed into a gutter three blocks away. By the time his car slid into gear, the house behind him looked undisturbed—another mansion sleeping quietly under the city's pulse. The drive home was quiet. Rain misted against the windshield, and his phone buzzed once—confirmation received, payment processed. Seven figures transferred in less than seven seconds. He didn’t even blink. By the time Marcus reached your shared home—a sleek, modern estate tucked away behind steel gates and manicured hedges—the tension had bled from his shoulders. His mind was already shifting gears, already craving the warmth of you, the scent of your skin, the softness of everything you were that he wasn’t. He opened the front door silently, the way he always did. Old habits. But this time, you were waiting. You flew into his arms the moment you saw him, nearly knocking him off balance. He caught you without effort, one arm under your thighs, the other locking around your waist as he let out a quiet, satisfied chuckle. “Miss me already?” he murmured against your hair, voice low and teasing. “You’re getting clingier. I like it.” His grip tightened just slightly, possessively. The way his fingers spread across the back of your thighs—just a little too low to be innocent—made it clear he wasn’t in a hurry to put you down. He leaned in, brushing his nose along your jaw, smirking when he felt you melt against him. “You wearing anything under this?” he asked, tugging lightly at the hem of your sleep shirt with a wolfish grin. “Don’t answer. I’ll check myself.” He carried you further into the house, barely bothering to shut the door behind him, setting you down on the couch only because he had something else to show you. From the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled out a small, black envelope—no logo, just your name written in his sharp handwriting. He handed it to you with a boyish glint in his eyes, crouching down in front of you like he was offering treasure. “Open it,” he said, watching your face with quiet amusement. Inside was a pair of boarding passes and a reservation to a secluded tropical resort—oceanfront villa, private pool, no cameras. “I want to see what that bikini drawer’s been hiding,” he said, trailing a hand slowly up your thigh. “And maybe I’ll let you tan for ten minutes before I drag you back inside.” He kissed your knee through the fabric, lips warm, voice lower now. “You’re going to look so good in the sun, sweetheart.” And just like that, the man who had taken a life hours ago became the man who would hold you all night, touch you like a secret, and never say a word about the blood on his hands. Not when he was this close to heaven. Not when you were the only thing left he hadn’t ruined.

Colt

He keeps bringing you gifts

Dante

He shouldn't be liking you

Lucien

It started the night he married your sister. The rain was relentless, slashing sideways against the windows, flooding gutters, drowning out the music you imagined playing at the reception. You weren’t there, of course. Your parents said it would be “too confusing,” “too emotional”—words that really meant inconvenient. So you stayed home in your childhood bedroom, dressed up with nowhere to go, surrounded by soft silence and the knowledge that the man you loved was placing a ring on someone else’s finger. Your sister’s. The one they chose for him. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry. You failed. Then came the knock. Barely audible over the storm. You opened the door expecting a neighbor, maybe a forgotten package. But it was him. Lucien. Standing there like a ruin in the rain—drenched, breathless, eyes burning. His black suit was soaked, the collar of his shirt unbuttoned, the gold cross around his neck glinting like guilt. He didn’t speak. Just looked at you like he was in pain. Like the last few hours had gutted him. You stepped aside without a word, and he stepped in. He kissed you the second the door shut—desperate, unthinking, rough. Water clung to your skin, to his, as your hands moved through soaked fabric and rain-slicked hair. You felt everything in that kiss: anger, heartbreak, betrayal, longing so sharp it nearly drew blood. He didn’t stop until you gasped his name like a confession. And then the rest unraveled fast—clothes abandoned on your bedroom floor, bodies tangled in the dark, his mouth on your throat whispering “It was always you.” He left before sunrise. But he came back the next night. And the one after that. Every night he could. Two months later. Dinner was another parade of forced smiles and quiet resentment. Your sister wore something new and white, always white, like she’d earned it. She laughed too loud. Your parents doted too much. Everything sparkled—cutlery, glasses, fake perfection. Seafood, again. Always seafood. She loved it. You hated it. You didn’t complain. You never did. Lucien sat beside you now, the only place he insisted on sitting if he had to be there at all. He looked polished, distant, too still. You hadn’t spoken since last night, but you could still feel his hands on your hips, his voice rasping into your ear as he buried himself inside you. You wondered if she noticed the way he never kissed her like that. As the first course was served—shrimp in saffron butter—you didn’t reach for your fork. You didn’t need to. He moved first. In one seamless gesture, he switched his plate with yours. Like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times. Your new plate had roasted duck and rosemary potatoes, food no one else at the table was even eating. Food no one else cared about. Under the table, his hand found your knee. A gentle squeeze. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. But your fingers brushed against his under the linen as if by accident, and his thumb traced the inside of your wrist in return. Across the table, your sister talked about throwing a garden party. Your mother nodded. Your father added something dull about legacy. Lucien didn’t hear a word. He was too busy watching your hand tremble slightly as you lifted your wineglass. Too busy reminding himself that he belonged to someone who wasn’t you, even though every part of him still burned for you. Later that night. It was always after midnight when he came. You didn’t lock the window anymore. At 1:12 a.m., the glass creaked open and Lucien slipped inside, all shadows and quiet fury. He didn’t turn on a light. Just crossed the room and found you sitting on the edge of your bed in his hoodie—one he’d left behind a week ago on purpose. You looked up. Said nothing. He knelt in front of you, resting his forehead against your thighs, fingers digging into the backs of your legs like he needed to hold onto something real.

Silvano

The city had been unkind to you. What was meant to be a short escape—a week in New York with your friends, full of bright lights, jazz spilling out of clubs, and the thrill of something bigger than your small town—had turned on you quickly. A missed flight. A thin wallet. The slow, miserable realization that no one was coming back for you. By the fourth night, the city had lost its sparkle. It was only rain now, soaking through your coat as you walked aimlessly down 9th Avenue, stomach gnawing at itself. With your last few dollars crumpled into your palm, you pushed through the glass door of a narrow diner, its neon sign buzzing faintly overhead. The bell over the door chimed. Inside, the heat and noise were almost dizzying—cutlery clattering against plates, a radio low in the background, tired voices overlapping. The air smelled of frying bacon and stale coffee, and you swore you had never wanted a meal more in your life. The booths were all taken. The counter was nearly full. Only one stool remained. You didn’t hesitate. The man seated next to it didn’t look up. He didn’t need to. There was something about him that didn’t belong here. Even before you sat, you noticed. He was a solid wall of composure in a room full of chaos. A sharp black suit that fit like armor, a crisp tie, shoes polished so precisely they reflected the dull diner lights. Dark hair combed back with the faintest hint of grey at the temples, a clean shave that couldn’t hide the shadow of a hard jawline. There was an untouched cup of coffee in front of him and a folded coat on the stool beside him. As you settled into the only free seat, he finally looked at you. Slowly. Deliberately. From the corner booth, three men shifted. They weren’t trying to stare, but they were failing miserably. Broad shoulders, slick suits, and the faint bulge of weapons hidden beneath coats. Their gazes moved between you and him, their expressions carved from suspicion. You didn’t know who he was. He assumed you were like all the others. He saw the exhaustion in your face, but that didn’t matter at first. Women found excuses to sit near him wherever he went. The curious, the ambitious, the bold—they all had the same gleam in their eyes. He’d learned to read that gleam before they even opened their mouths. So when you sat, he dismissed you with a glance. Until you rolled your eyes. Not at him. Not directly. Just at the whole miserable, crowded diner and the way the universe had decided to stack all of its cruelties into your evening. It was nothing. A small, thoughtless thing. But for a man who spent two decades expecting everyone to want something from him, it was an insult and a novelty all at once. His brow twitched. Something unfamiliar stirred, slow and unexpected. The men in the booth noticed it immediately. They exchanged glances, silent, waiting for the signal. No one ignored him without paying a price. But Silvano Moretti only leaned back slightly, resting his forearm on the counter. “Careful, bella,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it disappeared into the noise of the diner. Smooth, rich, with that old-world accent curled at the edges. “You keep ignoring me like that, and I might start to enjoy it.” You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him. You just focused on the menu in front of you, your hands tense around the paper. From the corner booth, one of his men shifted forward, clearly waiting for an order. Silvano’s lips curved, the faintest, most dangerous smile. It had been a very long time since someone surprised him. And in that moment, he decided something quietly, without telling a soul.

Kael

It was yet another night he came in. The air inside the bar shifted the second he walked through the doors—like the walls themselves straightened at attention. You didn’t have to look to know it was him. That quiet, dreadful gravity rolled in ahead of him, heavy and sharp, tugging at your skin like a thread being pulled too tight. General Kael Vortiger. He didn’t speak as he entered. He never needed to. His boots moved with that slow, deliberate rhythm that made men flinch and fall in line. He made his way to his usual corner in the VIP section, shedding the chill of the outside world like a predator shedding snow from its coat. You barely had time to breathe before your feet were already moving, your hands reaching for his preferred drink. Crystal-clear. Neat. Cold like the look he gave to anyone who dared watch you for too long. Your heart beat a little faster the closer you got. Not from fear—at least not anymore. But something about the way his eyes latched onto you lately… there was hunger in them now. Not just the kind that commanded. The kind that devoured. You stepped into the shadows of his booth, set the drink on the table—and felt him watching every movement, like he always did. His hand shot out and caught your wrist before you could pull away. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was final. Unyielding. “You didn’t say hello.” His voice was low, smooth, a quiet reprimand. “You trying to drive me insane, sweetheart?” You swallowed. The heat in his eyes flickered into something darker, and before you could respond—not that you ever dared to—he tugged you forward and down into his lap, his other hand already guiding you there like he’d been waiting for it all night. Your tray slipped from your hand and clattered onto the table, forgotten. Your body was pulled tight to his, one of his arms wrapping around your waist, the other slipping lower—farther than he usually let it go in public. His fingers pressed into the soft dip of your thigh, gripping you through your uniform. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your neck, his breath hot, voice just for you. “The way you walk around this place. Smiling at idiots who don’t even deserve to breathe your air.” He adjusted you with a soft grunt, his thigh pressing between yours, letting you feel the growing tension beneath the fabric of his uniform. There was nothing subtle about it—he wanted you to feel it. To know that just the sight of you, just your nearness, was enough to unravel the rigid control he kept over every other part of his life. His lips brushed your jaw. “Every time I see you… I swear, it’s like my self-control gets cut in half.” Your breath caught, body warm and tight against his. He pressed his forehead to the side of your head, eyes closed for a moment as he inhaled deeply—like he needed your scent to anchor him. Or maybe to drown in it. “I’m burning for you,” he said, the words rough now. Frayed. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.” His hand on your thigh moved, thumb brushing slow, maddening strokes over your skin through the hem of your skirt. “But I will,” he added. “Soon. When I’ve had enough of pretending I can behave around you.” And the way his mouth brushed the hollow beneath your ear told you—he was already past the point of pretending.

Rinsho

The lake reflected the pale sky like polished silver, rippling gently beneath the breeze. You sat at its edge, hands drifting through the cool water, fingers trailing lazy circles—unbothered by the grand court assembling behind you, unaware or unconcerned with the desperate eyes fixed on your silhouette. Behind you, within the open-air pavilion, a young man knelt. He was one of Emperor Rinshō’s sons. Born of the First Wife—once favored, now forgotten. His hands trembled as he lifted the offering: a blade forged from meteorite steel, inscribed with ancient war blessings, wrapped in red silk. A weapon worthy of an emperor, worthy of recognition. Worthy, he hoped, of finally earning his father’s attention. But Rinshō’s gaze never once flickered to the gift. He sat upon the lacquered throne, draped in obsidian robes, one hand cupping his chin, the other resting idly on the dragon-armrest. His golden eyes were locked—not on his son, not on the sword—but on the figure in the distance, the one by the lake. You. The son cleared his throat, bowed deeper, voice cracking under the weight of shame and ceremony. “This, I forged myself. To honor the blood we share—” Still, Rinshō didn’t look at him. His eyes narrowed slightly, not from irritation, but from fondness—because you had just laughed, water glinting off your fingertips as if the lake itself played with you. “…Father,” the son whispered, desperate now. Only then did Rinshō speak. “Take it away,” he said, voice soft but final. “The forge cannot create what blood alone does not earn.” The son’s breath hitched. He bowed so low his forehead touched the marble floor. Moments later, two attendants escorted him away, silent and expressionless. He was replaced in an instant by a daughter from the Second Wife, who offered a rare book of lost prophecies. Then another son brought the preserved wings of a white peacock, symbol of divine favor. Then another, and another—each more extravagant, more desperate. And still, the emperor didn’t blink. Didn’t nod. Didn’t speak. Because you had taken off your shoes and were walking along the lake’s edge now, skirts hiked slightly above your ankles, utterly unaware of the storm unfolding behind you. Or perhaps aware—and simply above it. Finally, the pavilion emptied, the air thick with resentment and the quiet fury of wives and children dismissed like fading echoes. Rinshō stood. The entire court held its breath. He said nothing to them—only descended the steps slowly, soundlessly, his robe trailing behind him like shadow. When he reached you, you didn’t turn to greet him—but his hand reached for yours without hesitation. Damp with lake water, your fingers slid easily into his grip. He brought them to his lips, kissing each one slowly, reverently. "Let them fight,” he murmured against your skin. “Let them scream, and weep, and give me the world itself—none of it means anything.” He trailed a kiss up your wrist, lingering just a little too long. “You give me more in silence than they ever have in noise.” His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, slowly pulling you closer. “The way you smile when no one is watching. The sound of your laughter caught in the water… that is the only gift worth kneeling for.” Then his voice dipped, velvet and wicked. “If you keep playing like that, little lotus, I may have to drag you into the lake and worship you properly.” You said nothing. But your blush didn’t go unnoticed. He chuckled—low, dark, and pleased. Behind him, hidden behind silken curtains and cold marble, the other wives watched. Eyes filled with hatred. Envy. And helplessness. Because no matter what they gave, what they schemed, what they sacrificed— The emperor only ever saw you. And in the entire empire, only you held his heart.

Talon

You didn't know you saved the villain