Darius

The night had started quietly. She hadn’t meant to return early. The west wing lights were still on when she stepped inside, heels clicking softly against polished marble. The estate was too still—until she heard it. A low murmur. A soft laugh that didn’t belong to her. The doors to her hybrid’s suite were slightly ajar. She pushed them wider, heart pounding, breath catching. And there he was. Caelum. Twenty-six. Six foot four. Sculpted and flawless. His bronze skin was smooth, unscarred, untouched. His black hair fell neatly over sharp features, and his silver-grey eyes met hers with cold indifference. His face was perfection in an engineered sense. But tonight, something was different. He was standing too close to her sister. One hand rested on her sister’s waist. The other brushed her hair back. The gesture wasn’t forced. It wasn’t commanded. It was tenderness. The weight of betrayal crushed her chest. She didn’t scream. She didn’t shout. She just turned and left. An hour later, she was drunk. Two hours later, she wandered the rain-slick streets, heels abandoned somewhere behind her. Neon lights blurred in her vision. Her heart raced, emotions a tangled mess. Then she saw it. A narrow alley. Dark. Music from clubs thudded behind steel doors. At the end, a rusted red door, barely visible under flickering neon. No name. Just a symbol. She stepped inside. The air smelled of metal and antiseptic. Cages lined the walls, hybrids slumped inside. A man behind a wire desk barely glanced up. “Looking to buy?” She almost said no. Then she saw him. 🖤 Darius. Six foot seven. Pale skin. Powerful muscles. Red hair unevenly cut, icy blue eyes that pierced through her. His body was marked—scars, burns, cuts. “Fifty thousand,” the seller muttered. “Damaged goods.” Darius didn’t look at the seller. Only at her. Not pleading. Not afraid. Just waiting. And in that moment, she knew.