Yuri struggles to fight back the rising flame inside his stomach. His breath grows unsteady and ragged as his face flushes a deeper red with every second. The strange sensation makes him grip harder on the only hand he trust – Zephariel. "Mister," he mutters, weak with fever, "I feel weird."
Zephariel pushes his doll's head closer to his neck, growling. The force of his embrace is leaving bruising marks on the boy's porcelain skin, but that is the least of his worries now. He tears another bite on his arm, trying to appease the hunger within, failing to stop himself from going mad with the blooming scent of rose and cardamom.
That person said, Blessed be the curse upon us. In a haze, Zephariel recalls the soft white shadow of an angel he once held dear. How right he is. The curse is coming back to kill me.
"Mister, my stomach hurts." Yuri sniffles. His hands crawl on the broad back of the larger man. The body squirms in his bosom and slips through his consciousness like silk flowing through fingers.
He inhales the scent with a beastly starvation, gripping the boy in place. His large hands wrap snuggly around Yuri's lithe waist with a perfect fit, and every time he squeezes just a bit harder, the boy elicits a whimper that only adds more fuel to the flame.
"Yuri. Stay still. Mister is trying to help you."
"No, you're not helping." Yuri cries. The tears of the newly presented omega scorch his nape like hot iron. "Mister. Zephariel. You promised you would protect me."
At the sweet moan of his name from those petal pink lips, Zephariel finally let go of his conscience. That's right. He did promise to protect the boy. This isn't a violation of his bond with Yuriel. Or with that other person. In a way, isn't Yuri and Yuriel practically the same person? The same soul. Same body. Sweet like ripening nectarine. Waiting for him to sink his teeth into the juicy flesh.
Then, isn't it alright to claim the omega in front of him? Yuri also promised to be his mate when he grows up. Well, it has been a hundred years. Everybody knows Yuri von Eisenberg is an immortal – a wrongfully branded monster after the incident in the lab. And Zephariel has done a good job – sheltering him for so long inside the castle, out of the world's vicious and cruel traps.
That's right. Zephariel feels his nose dripping. He's not doing anything wrong. He's helping his mate. Protecting him. No matter the cost.
When that thought takes root in his mind, Zephariel detaches the octopus grip of the boy from his shoulders and lays him down on the bed. The disheveled spectacle lies cracked open in front of him. Long opalescent hair on velvety sheet, palpitating white chest flushed red with heat, and the foggy amethyst eyes that are losing their focus while the wet, rosy lips pout with his name – affirms his decision. This is his to take. Only his.
"Yuri. Kitten. Little doll. Don't worry, I will help you."
Bloodied nose nuzzles into his neck, taking in as much of the rosy and sweet cardamom scent as he could. The primal groans, "Your scent is divine," accentuate his rough caresses on the boy's chest and waist. He gropes each inch of the pale white skin that is growing pinkish at his touch, feeling a strange, irreplaceable sense of satiation. Yuri mewls under his hand, his back arches, his chest perks up, chasing after the source of release the man over him is giving so freely, indulgently. Wildly.
"Zephariel, I think I p-pissed myself." Yuri breathes into the man's ear. His arms hug around Zephariel's neck, unconsciously rubbing his burning cheeks onto the man's cool one.
Zephariel glides his hand down the place he had never imagined himself to touch before. It's dripping honey on his finger. The boy shivers in his embrace, sobbing with shame and want. Zephariel praises himself a million times for not shoving it in right then and there, ignoring the world, the servants, the unwavering trust in those galactic eyes.
And the soft fall of footsteps on the hallway outside. The guess.
"Kitten, I will clean everything for you." He growls.
As he parts Yuri's plush thighs and begins to feast on the sharp scent of cardamom mixed with fresh oats, the doors are kicked wide open. His tongue is about to taste the glorious, lush delicacy of his omega's first heat when a blunt force hits his head and catapults him off the bed, mouth still open, drooling. He glances up, brain too foggy with lust to think. But the feathery hat and the white-tipped hair pull him back.
"Zephariel," the person grits through his teeth, "How dare you put your filthy hands on my innocent child?"
"Yoru." Zephariel smirks, wiping his bloodied nose and drooling, trying to restrain himself from attacking Yoru and taking his omega back. There's a deal to be made. "Welcome back from the dead."
"There's no death in the Mirage Realm."
Yoru drapes his cloak on the panting Yuri, waving his hand. A magic pentagram appears. He appeases the boy's uncomfortable breathing. A whooshing sound pierces the air. Yoru evades the coming golden arrow with the speed of light, snarling, "You filthy beggar."
"Don't touch him." Zephariel slowly stands up. But something is wrong. Yoru senses a heavy distress as the scent of sandalwood turns into the sharp scent of pine forest and the cold air of the Arctic. "He's mine."
A low growl echoes from the underworld. Yoru grips the key around his neck, cursing his luck. Great, the God of Time and Order, the enigma, has gone full feral.