Chapter Text
The bookstore was the last place Vox expected to run into Alastor.
It wasn't his territory—too quiet, too analog, too full of things that didn't run on electricity—but Velvette had personally tasked him with finding a specific book for one of her photoshoots. Something about Victorian fashion. Ancient. Rare.
And here he was, browsing dusty shelves with a poorly disguised look of annoyance, when the scent arrived first.
Moss. Whiskey. Him.
Vox tensed. His fingers—idly flipping through a book—stopped. His screen flickered—just a second, damn it—before regaining control.
"Don't tell me," the voice came from behind, that sing-song, dangerous tone he knew too well. "The great Vox, lost among paper pages? I thought your religion was technology."
Vox turned slowly.
Alastor was there, leaning against a shelf with that I-own-everything-I-see pose of his. Dressed impeccably—as always—but there was something different in his eyes. Something hungry, poorly disguised beneath layers of amusement.
"I needed a break from screens," Vox replied, forcing a bored tone. "What are you doing here? Trying your luck to see if there's anything older than you in this place?"
Alastor's smile widened.
"How charming. And that book?" He leaned slightly, feigning interest in the volume Vox was holding. "Learning to be interesting? Because so far..."
Vox snapped the book shut.
"Are you always this insufferable, or is it a special talent you developed just for me?"
"Only for you, darling," Alastor stepped forward, invading his personal space with a naturalness that burned. "Consider it a privilege."
The space between them shrank to inches. Vox could feel the heat of his body, could smell him—that scent of moss and whiskey that had etched itself into his skin after those nights. His body—traitor—warmed with a memory it shouldn't have.
"Privilege," Vox repeated, his voice almost steady. "Sure. Like having a splinter in your finger."
"And yet," Alastor tilted his head, his red eyes scanning him with deliberate slowness, "here you still are. Talking to me. Looking for me."
"Looking for you?" Vox laughed, but the sound was more strained than he wanted. "I got here first. You're the one who appeared behind me like a second-rate stalker."
"Stalker," Alastor savored the word like candy. "I like it. It has a certain... flair."
Another step. Vox instinctively stepped back, and his back hit the shelf. Trapped. Right where Alastor wanted him.
"You know what else has flair?" Vox lifted his chin, defiant. "Your suite. After you left. You should air it out more often, it smells like—"
"Like you?" Alastor interrupted, his voice a whisper. "Because your scent lingered, you know? On the wall. In my bathroom. On me."
The silence stretched. Heavy. Electric.
Vox swallowed. His screen—stay in control, stay in control—emitted a steady glow.
"How romantic," he said, his voice almost mocking. "The great Alastor, sleeping in a place that smells like me. Do you hug a pillow at night too?"
"Only when I dream about that slap," Alastor leaned closer, his mouth nearly brushing the edge of his screen. "The part where you apologize doesn't exist, but the rest..."
Vox felt his neck—beneath the casing—burn.
"You're such an idiot," he whispered.
"And you," Alastor smiled, showing teeth, "are so easy to provoke."
A customer coughed somewhere nearby. The moment broke.
Vox slipped away to the side, putting distance between them before his body did something stupid—like kiss him.
"Keep your book," Alastor said from behind, his voice too amused. "I already found what I was looking for."
Vox stopped. Looked over his shoulder.
"And what exactly were you looking for?"
Alastor held his gaze. That smile. Always that smile.
"You."
And he disappeared into the shadows.
Vox stood alone among dusty shelves, with a book he no longer remembered why he needed and a hum—electric, familiar—running through his entire body.
"Damn it," he whispered to the empty air.
But his smile—small, involuntary—betrayed him completely.
--------
Vox had the book already.
He'd found it after Alastor disappeared—after fleeing like an idiot from a bookstore—and now he was here, at a bar he hadn't visited in years, with Velvette's volume forgotten on the counter and a double whiskey burning his throat.
He didn't want to go back to the tower.
Not yet.
Valentino was still upset. That was the word Velvette used to describe him. "Upset." As if the bruises on his wrists—hidden under long sleeves—and the throbbing pain in his thighs every time he walked were the product of a passing annoyance.
"You forgot your place, Voxy."
Val's voice echoed in his head. He gripped the glass tighter.
"Another?"
Vox blinked. The bartender looked at him with that I've-seen-a-thousand-sinners-like-you expression. He nodded. The whiskey refilled his glass.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time in bars was always elastic when you didn't want to be anywhere else.
"Is this seat taken?"
The voice was new. Deep. Interested.
Vox turned his head. The sinner who'd appeared beside him was... impressive. Tall—much taller than him—with musculature that even loose clothing couldn't hide. Tattoos covered his scaly skin, intricate patterns that seemed to move in the bar's dim light. And his scent... burnt wood. Alpha.
His smile was confident, but not arrogant. Almost tender.
"It's free," Vox replied, and his voice sounded more neutral than he expected.
The alpha—Boun, he said his name was—sat down next to him. Ordered something for himself and then, with a gesture that seemed rehearsed but sincere, touched his arm.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, leaning slightly toward him. "The one you're having seems strong. You need something... smoother."
Vox laughed.
Actually laughed. A genuine laugh, which surprised even himself. Because it was sweet. Because this huge, tattooed alpha was using pickup lines that seemed straight out of a beginner's manual.
"Smoother?" he repeated, a smile curving his lips. "You don't know who you're talking to, do you?"
"I know you're the most interesting person in this bar," Boun smiled, showing fangs. "That's enough for me."
Vox opened his mouth to respond. To accept that drink, to let himself be flirted with by someone who didn't come with the emotional baggage of—
The chill came first.
That familiar tingle running down his spine, making every hair on his body stand up. The scent—moss, whiskey—wrapped around him like a blanket before he could process what was happening.
And then the laugh.
That damned laugh.
"You wouldn't have enough," Alastor's voice cut between them like a knife, "to pay for what he drinks, my friend."
The cane struck Boun's hand, knocking it away from Vox's arm with a precise movement. Alastor's smile was dangerous. His red eyes gleamed with something that chilled the blood.
Boun frowned.
"Hey, we were in the middle of a conversation," he protested, straightening up to face the intruder. "I don't know who you think you are—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Tentacles emerged from nowhere—fast, hungry—and coiled around the alpha, lifting him off the stool as if he weighed nothing. Boun yelled, confused, but before he could do anything else, he was being dragged toward the bar's door.
"Wait!" Vox stood up, but Alastor was already taking the empty seat.
The tentacle threw Boun out into the street. The door closed.
Silence.
Alastor settled onto the stool, crossed one leg over the other, and rested both arms on the bar with the calm of someone who's arrived home after a long journey.
"We should stop meeting like this," he said, his tone amused, casual. "Darling."
Vox looked at him.
His whiskey was still on the bar. Velvette's book was still there. His pulse—accelerated, racing—kept reminding him that this man was dangerous.
But he didn't leave.
"You're so dramatic," he said instead, sitting back down. "You could have let him buy me a drink. It's been years since I laughed at such a bad pickup line."
"Bad?" Alastor raised an eyebrow. "I could give you much better bad pickup lines."
"Like what?"
Alastor tilted his head. His red eyes scanned Vox with deliberate slowness.
"Are you a sin?" he asked, his voice a purr. "Because being with you would be my eternal damnation."
Vox blinked.
And then—unable to help it—he laughed.
A genuine laugh, like before, but different. Warmer. More dangerous.
"That was terrible," he said between laughs. "Terrible."
"That was the point." Alastor smiled, satisfied.
The bartender appeared with another whiskey. Vox didn't remember ordering it. Neither did Alastor, but he took it anyway.
"Cheers," the alpha said, raising his glass.
Vox clinked his against it.
"Cheers," he replied, and his eyes never left the red ones.
The night—suddenly—had become much more interesting.
-----
The jukebox spat out the first notes of a catchy jazz tune, the kind that made feet move on their own even if the head said otherwise. Vox recognized the melody—classic, old, exactly the type of music Alastor preferred—and before he could protest, he was already being pulled toward the small dance floor next to the bar.
"What do you think you're doing?" he protested, but his feet were already following the rhythm.
Alastor smiled. That smile.
"Dancing," he replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"I have many problems," Vox spun in his arms, a perfectly synchronized movement. "You're one of the main ones."
"What a compliment."
The song enveloped them. The spins were impossible—too fast, too close—but their bodies executed them as if they'd been practicing for decades. Vox moved between Alastor's arms with a familiarity that should have alarmed him. It didn't.
And then—on a spin, when Vox's sleeves slid up—Alastor saw them.
The marks.
Purplish bruises circling his wrists, some darker than others, fingers imprinted on his skin like a cruel reminder.
Alastor's eyes—those red eyes—darkened.
"What is that?" his voice was low, dangerous.
Vox followed his gaze. His face—his damned face—tensed. He pulled his sleeves down quickly.
"Nothing."
"It doesn't look like nothing." Alastor caught him on the next spin, his hands—careful, tense—holding his wrists with a delicacy that contrasted with the fury in his eyes. "That disgusting moth. Did he dare hurt you?"
Vox looked away. His screen tinted pink in a way he couldn't control.
"It's not your business," he murmured, turning his face toward Alastor's shoulder to hide.
Alastor snorted. He spun him again—a brusque, possessive movement—and pulled him back, their bodies pressed closer than the dance required.
"Well then," his voice was a sharp whisper, "you shouldn't be showing off those marks around."
Vox rolled his eyes. But the gesture lost its force when he found himself trapped in that red gaze.
"I'm the one showing off?" his voice was a hiss. "You're the one walking around smelling like apples. You reek of him, Alastor. Are you bragging?"
Alastor's smile widened. He leaned toward his casing, his mouth brushing the smooth surface.
"Are you jealous, darling?" he whispered, and the word was a hot caress. "It's adorable."
Vox felt his face burn.
"You're an idiot," he spat, but his voice trembled. "I want to wipe that smile off your face with a slap."
Something gleamed in Alastor's eyes. Something hungry.
His hand—the one holding her waist—tightened, pulling her closer. When he spoke again, his voice was a low, dangerous purr that made something in Vox's stomach clench.
"Oh, darling," he murmured. "Don't provoke me in front of everyone. I could bend you over the bar."
The threat—because it was a threat, it had to be a threat—made Vox's knees buckle.
And then Alastor lifted her wrist. Slowly. Deliberately. He brought the reddened skin—those bruises Val had left—to his lips.
He kissed it.
Soft. Tender. Such a brutal contrast to everything else that Vox shuddered from head to toe.
"Alastor," he whispered, and his voice sounded small.
The alpha looked at him. His red eyes—dark, hungry—met his. Vox felt the world shrink to this moment, to this man, to this electricity between them.
He leaned closer. His mouth—so close to Alastor's—whispered:
"Could you shut up and kiss me already?"
Alastor's smile—if that was possible—grew wider.
And then his lips found hers.
The kiss was different.
It wasn't the desperate kiss of the first night, nor the furious kiss from the hotel room. This one was slow. Deliberate. Alastor savored his lips as if he had all the time in the world, as if Vox were an expensive drink meant to be savored.
Vox moaned against his mouth. His hands—those bruised hands—clung to Alastor's jacket, pulling him closer, always closer. The taste—whiskey, blood, him—enveloped him like a drug.
"Alastor," he whispered between kisses. "People are watching us."
"Let them watch."
Again his lips. Deeper. Hungrier.
The music kept playing—that catchy jazz that had started it all—but Vox no longer heard it. He only heard his own heart beating loudly, only felt Alastor's hands roaming his back, only this existed.
When they finally parted—panting, disheveled—Alastor rested his forehead against Vox's screen. His red eyes—bright—looked at him with an intensity that was frightening.
"You have to go back, don't you?"
The question fell between them like a weight.
Vox swallowed. Nodded. Barely.
"They're waiting for me. If I don't show up..."
"I know." Alastor straightened up, but his hands didn't let him go. "Believe me, I know."
The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Painful.
"Alastor," Vox spoke first, his voice almost trembling. "About Lucifer..."
"No." Alastor brought a finger to his lips. "Not now. Not here."
Vox nodded. Swallowed the words he wanted to say—What are we? What am I to you?—and instead, smiled. That screen smile of his, bright and empty.
"Another whiskey before I go?" he said, returning to his stool. "Since you wouldn't let anyone else buy me one."
Alastor laughed. Took the seat beside him.
"That," he said, signaling the bartender, "I can arrange."
------
They kissed more before saying goodbye.
It wasn't the urgency of other times—that corrosive need to devour each other—but something slower. Lazier. As if they had all the time in the world and, at the same time, none at all.
Alastor's lips found his again and again. Breaths that lasted seconds—sometimes just a sigh—and then they'd meet again. Vox moaned against his mouth, small sounds lost in the shared warmth.
"Mmm... Alastor," he murmured between kisses, his words sticky from the closeness. "Seriously... I really have to go."
Alastor's hand caressed his waist—slow, possessive strokes—while his tongue found Vox's in a dance that was in no hurry to end.
"I'm not stopping you," he whispered against his lips. "Dear."
Dear.
That word. Always that word.
Vox could have stayed like this for hours. He wanted to stay like this for hours. Maybe forever. The thought—dangerous, stupid—floated in his mind as he lost himself in Alastor's warmth.
And then the phone vibrated.
A sharp buzz. Insistent. Cruel.
Vox startled as if electrocuted. His hand—trembling—went to his pocket, but he didn't take out the phone. He didn't need to see the screen to know who it was. To know what it meant.
He sighed. Pressed his forehead against Alastor's shoulder. One second. Two. Breathing in his scent, storing it for later.
"I have to go," he said, and his voice sounded small.
Alastor laughed. That sound—always that sound—vibrated through him.
"You look so beautiful," the alpha murmured, his fingers stroking the back of his neck. "So desperate to stay with me."
Vox frowned. Lifted his head, mouth open to respond—to insult him, to deny it—but Alastor didn't let him.
Another kiss.
Deeper. More promising.
And when they finally parted—just enough to speak—his voice was a whisper tangled on his lips.
"I'll come see you soon," he said.
Vox looked at him. Those red eyes. That smile. This man.
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
He got up from the stool. Took Velvette's book. Walked toward the door.
He didn't look back.
But when the night enveloped him in its electric darkness, the taste of Alastor was still on his lips.
And a smile—small, foolish—refused to leave his face.
--------------------------------------------------
The following days were an exercise in mutual torture.
Vox noticed it first in small things. Unexpected static in his transmissions. A lapse in the middle of a recorded speech where his mind wandered elsewhere for a few seconds. Velvette asked if he was sick. Valentino—always observant when it came to his possessions—began watching him with an intensity that chilled the blood.
But the worst were the nights.
Those damned nights.
When the silence of his suite filled with memories. Alastor's weight on him. The heat of his mouth. That voice—that damned voice—whispering "darling" as if it were a promise.
Vox stopped sleeping.
Not that he slept much with the amount of work he had, but at least he slept a little. And now, every time he closed his eyes, he saw red.
Three nights after the bar, his phone vibrated with a message from an unknown number.
"Your scent has faded from my room."
Vox choked on the whiskey he was drinking. His screen tinted pink before he could control it.
His fingers trembled over the screen as he replied:
"Alastor? Are you using a phone?"
"Not me. I tell my shadow to type on that device... It's almost as irritatingly difficult as you."
"Are you always this cheesy, or is it a special talent?"
The response came seconds later.
"Only with you. Do you like it?"
Vox snorted. A smile—idiotic, completely idiotic—spread across his face.
"I like it when you shut up."
"Liar. You like it when I make you shut up."
Heat rose from his neck to his screen. Damned. Damned deer.
"What do you want, Alastor?"
Pause. Long. Cruel.
"To see you."
And then—as if his words had conjured reality—the electricity flickered.
Vox spun in his chair.
Alastor was there. Leaning against the window of his suite—his private suite—with that perpetual smile and arms crossed.
"How...?" Vox shot to his feet.
"Your windows," Alastor shrugged, "are pathetically easy to open."
"I live on the top floor."
"Yes." The smile widened. "It was fun."
Vox wanted to say something. Wanted to ask how, why, since when. Wanted to demand explanations.
Instead, he closed the distance and kissed him.
Alastor laughed against his mouth, but his arms—warm, solid—caught him before he could think of pulling away.
"I missed you," Vox whispered between kisses, and the honesty of the word frightened him.
"I know," Alastor replied, and for once there was no mockery in his voice.
The night—suddenly—was no longer silent.
-------
Vox moaned when his back hit the wall.
The impact was soft—Alastor controlled every movement with that precision of his that burned—but the feeling of being trapped, possessed, made his cunt throb with need. His hands—eager, hungry—roamed Alastor's chest, feeling every muscle beneath the shirt, every tremor the alpha couldn't hide.
They moved up to his shoulders. To the back of his neck. His fingers tangled in that red hair—so soft, so contradictory—and pulled just hard enough to draw a growl from him.
"Alastor," he whispered between kisses, his voice broken by urgency. "Do you... mmm... ever intend to make love to me in a bed?"
Alastor froze.
Just a second. A barely perceptible pause in the rhythm of their kisses. But Vox felt it—how could he not—and for a moment he feared he'd broken something.
Then Alastor's tongue licked his lips. Slow. Deliberate.
"How audacious of you," he murmured against his mouth, his voice a dangerous purr, "to assume we'd do that tonight."
Vox opened his mouth to respond—to insult him, to provoke him—but before he could, Alastor's hands squeezed his waist and moved him.
Away from the wall.
Toward the bed.
The journey was a blur of clumsy steps and endless kisses. Vox tripped over his own feet—pathetic, completely pathetic—but Alastor held him, guided him, possessed him with every movement.
When the edge of the bed hit his knees, Vox gasped.
"See?" Alastor smiled against his lips. "I do know how to use a bed."
Vox laughed—a disbelieving, happy laugh—and pulled him down.
They fell together onto the sheets like two hormonal teenagers who couldn't keep their hands still.
The kisses were messy—a mix of lips and teeth and tongues meeting again and again without pause. Vox's hands roamed every inch of Alastor they could reach, tangling in his hair, tracing his shoulders, claiming.
"Alastor," he panted against his mouth when he felt their hips grind together. "Fuck."
The alpha's response was a growl that vibrated through his entire body. His fingers—impatient—tugged at Vox's jacket, his shirt, at any fabric they found.
Vox, not to be outdone, grabbed Alastor's jacket and pulled.
The garment flew somewhere onto the bed. Vox didn't watch where. He just wrapped his arms around Alastor's shoulders again, pulling him closer, always closer.
"Mmm," Alastor whispered against his neck, his teeth grazing the skin. "Like that, darling."
Vox moaned, arching against him.
And then—
Knock, knock, knock.
"Vox?" Velvette's voice on the other side of the door was a bucket of cold water. "Are you in there? I want to show you something!"
Vox froze.
His eyes—wide open—met Alastor's. Panic meeting amusement.
"One second!" he shouted, his voice much higher than normal.
And then—without thinking—he pushed.
Alastor fell off the bed with a dull thud. Vox also pushed his jacket to the floor, landing over his head in an almost comical way.
The door opened.
Velvette entered with the confidence of someone who knows she's always welcome. She held a tablet in her hands, her expression radiant with excitement.
"Look!" she exclaimed, approaching Vox without even noticing his disheveled clothes. "It's my new clothing line for omegas. I'm calling it 'Powerful but Sexy.' What do you think?"
Vox nodded. Quickly. Too quickly.
"Incredible," he said, his voice almost normal. "Everything. It's... incredible."
Velvette squinted.
"Are you okay? You look... weird."
"Perfectly fine," Vox forced a smile. "Just... tired. Lots of work."
Velvette—bless her, she was a beta and couldn't smell anything—stared at him for one more second. Then she shrugged.
"Well, if you say it's incredible, I'm launching it. Thanks, baby!"
She left the room as quickly as she'd entered. The door closed.
Silence.
Vox exhaled—all the air he'd been holding—and peeked over the edge of the bed.
Alastor was still on the floor.
His jacket—that impeccable jacket—covered his head ridiculously. His legs were sprawled gracelessly, his arms crossed over his chest in a pose attempting dignity and failing spectacularly.
"Is she gone yet?" he asked, his voice muffled by the fabric.
Vox laughed. He couldn't help it.
"Yes, you can get up now."
Alastor stood with the dignity of someone who hadn't just been pushed off a bed like an embarrassing secret. He took the jacket off his head, shook it out—as if that mattered—and looked at Vox with a raised eyebrow.
"You have a lot of nerve," he said, his voice a dangerous purr, "to push me and hide me like I'm some dirty secret."
Vox laughed again. He leaned forward, caught Alastor's bow tie between his fingers, and pulled.
The alpha fell toward him—right where he wanted him—and their lips met in a brief but promising kiss.
"Technically," Vox whispered against his mouth, a mischievous smile curving his lips, "you are."
Alastor looked at him. His red eyes—burning—scanned his face with an intensity that promised revenge.
"You're going to pay for that," he murmured.
"Promise?" Vox smiled.
And they kissed again.
-------
They kissed as if Velvette had never interrupted. As if the world were only them and this bed and the heat growing between their bodies.
Vox tugged at Alastor's shirt—that damned impeccable shirt—pulling it from his pants with an impatience bordering on obscene. His hands found warm skin, tense muscles, and he moaned against his mouth.
"I love you," he whispered without thinking.
Alastor stopped.
Just a second. A barely perceptible pause in the rhythm of their caresses.
"What?" his voice was a careful whisper.
Vox blinked. The heat in his cheeks—beneath the screen—could have melted steel.
"Nothing," he lied. "I didn't say anything."
"Yes, you did." Alastor looked at him. Those red eyes—intense, searching—scanned his face as if trying to decipher a secret code. "You said you love me."
The silence stretched. Heavy. Terrifying.
Vox swallowed. His pride—the one he'd built for years—screamed at him to deny it, to laugh, to turn it all into a joke.
But his eyes—those eyes that always betrayed him—had already told the truth.
"Yes," he whispered, and the word was terrible to pronounce. "I love you. So what?"
Alastor didn't respond.
He just looked at him.
And then—slowly, deliberately—his mouth found his in a different kiss.
It wasn't the hungry kiss from before. It wasn't the possessive kiss of other nights. It was... something else. Something softer. More terrifying.
"Darling, you don't know what you're saying," Alastor murmured against his lips.
"I know exactly what I'm saying," Vox clung to the back of his neck, refusing to let him pull away. "And I've already said it."
Another pause.
And then—for the first time—Alastor looked at him without that amusement in his eyes.
"You," he said, his voice rough, "are going to be my undoing."
Vox smiled. A genuine smile, without filters, without masks.
"I know."
And he pulled him into another kiss.
--------
The silence after sex was something Vox didn't experience often.
With Valentino, there was always wild haste—the quick fuck, the emptiness that remained afterward. With others—the few there had been before—there was always that awkwardness, that urge to flee before things got strange.
But with Alastor...
With Alastor, the silence was comfortable.
They were naked among the tangled sheets, their bodies still sticky with sweat and everything else. A single cigarette—taken from his nightstand—passed from his lips to Alastor's in a lazy ritual.
Inhale. Exhale. The smoke tangled in the air like they had tangled moments ago.
Vox stared at the ceiling. Felt the warmth of Alastor's body against his. Felt peace—a word he never thought he'd use in Hell—settling into his bones.
But his mind—always curious, always insufferable—couldn't stop circling one thing.
He turned toward Alastor.
Stared at him. Those red eyes that now—without the urgency of desire—seemed almost soft.
Alastor raised an eyebrow. Silent question. What?
Vox propped himself on his chest, his screen pressed against his warm skin, the cigarette between his fingers.
"What was it you said?" he murmured. "You spoke in French."
Alastor took the cigarette from him—a lazy movement—and took a long drag before answering.
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
Vox laughed. A low, satisfied laugh. His finger traced circles on Alastor's chest, playing with the hair, provoking.
"Of course you have an idea." He lifted his gaze to meet those red eyes. "You made me come like that when you said it. It has to be something good."
Alastor exhaled the smoke slowly. His smile—that damned smile—curved on his lips.
"And if it was an insult?" he asked, his voice a purr. "What if I called you my bitch?"
Vox rolled his eyes, but his smile widened.
"It didn't sound like an insult. It sounded like... something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
Alastor shook his head. Took another drag from the cigarette.
"No."
"No, what?"
"I'm not going to tell you."
Vox snorted. Deflated. Dropped his head against his chest with a dramatic gesture.
"You're so insufferable."
"It's part of my charm."
"I'm not charmed." Vox lifted his head again, his eyes—blue, bright—pleading. "At least say it again. Even if you don't tell me what it means. Just... say it again."
Alastor looked at him.
A long moment.
And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned his face toward him. His mouth was so close Vox could feel his breath, mixed with smoke and whiskey.
"Tu es la plus belle chose que j'aie jamais vue, mon cher," he murmured, and each syllable was a caress. "Ma belle perdition."
Vox shivered.
He didn't understand a single word. But the way Alastor said it—that low, elegant, promising voice—made something twist in his stomach.
"It sounds sexy," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"It is."
"Will you tell me someday?"
"Maybe."
Vox smiled. Leaned forward and kissed Alastor, slow, deep. Felt the smoke pass from his lips to his, felt the warmth, felt everything.
When they parted, panting slightly, he rested his forehead against Alastor's.
"You're so goddamn complicated."
"I know." Alastor smiled. "You love it."
This time, Vox didn't deny it.
-------------------------------------------------------
Dawn in Hell wasn't like on Earth.
There were none of those pink and golden tones that poets celebrated so much. Just a change in the quality of light—from deep red to a dirty orange—that indicated another day was beginning in eternal damnation.
Alastor dressed in silence.
Every movement was calculated to make no sound, not to disturb Vox's deep breathing, who still slept tangled in the sheets as if he didn't have a care in the world. His screen—calm—rested on the pillow without that constant static that characterized it. His face was relaxed. Young. Almost vulnerable.
Alastor looked at him one second too long.
The plan had been to bother Vox.
That had been the idea. Sneak into his suite, provoke him, make those biting comments that always made him explode. Maybe get another slap—that slap he'd been thinking about more than he'd admit. Make sure that idiot Valentino hadn't put another mark on him.
The plan hadn't been the flirting.
The plan hadn't been cuddling after sex.
The plan hadn't been making love to him.
The word echoed in his head like an out-of-tune bell.
Making love.
What a human term. So vulgar. So ridiculous to describe what had happened between them.
And yet...
He found no other word.
It should have been unpleasant. It should have been disgusting. All that skin-to-skin contact, that soft intimacy, those glances that lasted one second too long. That wasn't him. That had never been him.
But it wasn't.
Damn it.
It wasn't.
Alastor clenched his jaw. His fingers—traitors—reached for something in his jacket pocket. A scrap of paper. A pen materialized from nowhere.
He wrote quickly. Without thinking. Without letting himself think.
"I'll see you soon, Mon Cher."
He left the note on the nightstand, right where Vox would see it when he woke up. He didn't look back as he slipped into his shadows.
But when he reached his suite at the hotel, when the door closed behind him and darkness enveloped him...
He stood still.
For a long moment.
Just breathing.
---------------
Alastor's mind was a fragmented place now.
He couldn't desire Vox. He shouldn't desire Vox. He was the enemy, the rival, the idiot who had tried to destroy the hotel, destroy him, and who would surely try again at the first opportunity. He was an omega belonging to another alpha—to Valentino—and that should have been enough for his instincts to reject him.
But no.
God, no.
He desired him with all his might.
Every time they were near—even in the most casual moments, like in that damned bookstore—his body reacted before his mind. His hands wanted to touch him. His eyes sought his neck—always his neck—hoping to see him still unmarked. Still free.
And every time he saw him like that... unbitten, unclaimed, unpossessed...
He wanted to do it.
He wanted to bite him. Mark him. Sink his fangs into that soft skin and leave a mark that everyone could see. A mark that said: this pretty omega is mine.
But that would be dangerous.
That would mean having Vox forever.
And that...?
Was that something he wanted?
The question floated in his mind, unanswered, when his suite door burst open.
"Alastor!" Lucifer's voice was too cheerful for so early. "Do you like the gift I gave you?"
Alastor blinked. His expression—that controlled expression—slid back into place like a mask.
The King of Hell entered the room with the confidence of someone who knows he's welcome. He was dressed casually and his smile was radiant.
"Your Majesty," Alastor sat up slightly on the sofa. "Weren't you taught to knock before entering?"
"Knocking is for people who have secrets." Lucifer dropped down beside him. "Do you have secrets, Alastor?"
Many.
But he said nothing.
Instead, he pointed to his shadow—who at that moment was holding the phone Lucifer had insisted on giving him a few days ago.
"Your gift," he said. "My shadow uses it. I don't."
Lucifer followed the direction of his finger. His eyes—golden, bright—narrowed with curiosity.
"Your shadow?" He leaned forward, trying to see better. "What does it do with it?"
The shadow—obedient but mischievous—slid to one side. Then to another. And when Lucifer got too close, it disappeared under the bed with the phone in a possessive embrace.
Lucifer laughed. A genuine, charming laugh.
"Wow!" he exclaimed. "It's like a pet."
"My shadow is not a pet."
"It's adorable."
"It is not."
Lucifer turned toward him, resting his cheek on his hand. His smile—that dangerously sweet smile—didn't waver.
"Well," he said. "Since I'm here... How about we watch a movie? Or maybe we could go out to eat something. I know a place that..."
Alastor raised an eyebrow.
"Why would we do that?"
Lucifer blinked. His smile faltered—just a second—but recovered quickly.
"Why not? We're... you know. This." He made a vague gesture encompassing the room, the bed, everything. "I thought maybe you'd want to... spend time together. Outside of... you know."
You know.
Sex. That's what he meant.
Alastor looked at him. The King of Hell, the most powerful being in existence, sitting on his sofa like a nervous teenager asking for a date.
And for a moment—just a moment—he imagined it was someone else.
He imagined bright eyes instead of golden ones. Imagined static instead of light. Imagined an omega who insulted him, challenged him, provoked him.
"No," he said, and the word came out harsher than he intended. "I don't have time for... that."
Lucifer blinked again. This time, his smile did fall.
"Oh," he said. Just that. Oh.
The silence stretched. Uncomfortable. Painful.
"Well," Lucifer stood up, smoothing his robe with nervous movements. "I understand. Another time, I suppose."
He walked to the door. Stopped just before leaving.
"See you later, then," he said without looking back, and left the room.
Alastor sighed.
His shadow—traitor—emerged from under the bed, the phone still in its hands. The small screen glowed with an unread message.
"Why didn't you wake me up? I slept like a rock. Idiot."
Vox.
Always Vox.
Alastor didn't respond.
-------------------------------------------------------
The following days were an exercise in forced avoidance.
Alastor stayed away from the Vee tower. The phone—that damned phone Lucifer had given him and that he hated—vibrated several times with messages that Alastor read but didn't respond to.
"Hey, idiot. You still alive?"
"I'll be free for three days. Just saying."
"Alastor."
"Fine, I get it. It was one night. I know."
"But at least answer so I can stop worrying."
"Lie. I'm not worried. I just want to know if you're going to come bother me again."
"Alastor."
"Damn you."
The last message came in the early morning of the third day.
"I hate you."
Alastor read it three times.
Then he turned off the phone and shoved it into a drawer with too much force.
---
The Overlords' meeting was torture designed specifically for him.
Carmilla Carmine had summoned all the important powers of Hell to discuss "matters of mutual interest"—which in practice meant hours of boring speeches and superficial alliances. Alastor took his place at the table with his perpetual smile, ignoring everyone's stares, ignoring everything.
Until the door opened and the Vees walked in.
All three. Together. Coordinated.
Valentino entered first, with his usual arrogance, his multiple arms gesticulating as he talked to Velvette. Behind them...
Vox.
He looked impeccable—electric blue suit, bright screen, a circumstantial smile—but Alastor saw him. Saw the tension in his shoulders. Saw the way his eyes—those bright eyes—avoided looking his way. Saw how Valentino placed a hand on his waist—possessive, owning—and how Vox didn't pull away.
The growl escaped before he could control it.
Low. Barely a rumble. But the nearby Overlords looked at him with curiosity.
"Something wrong, Alastor?" Zestial asked with his ancient voice.
"Nothing," Alastor replied, his smile perfectly in place. "Just a little... static."
The meeting continued.
But Alastor didn't hear a single word.
He just watched.
Watched how Valentino kept his hand on Vox throughout the entire meeting. Watched how Vox—his Vox—smiled and nodded and pretended. Watched how, in a moment when Valentino got distracted with Velvette, Vox looked up and their eyes met.
One second.
Nothing more.
But in that second, Alastor saw everything he needed to see.
Tiredness. Pain. Anger. And beneath it all... a question. A ridiculous hope.
Alastor looked away first.
When he looked back, Vox was no longer searching for him.
---
The meeting ended past midnight.
The Overlords dispersed in small groups, some toward their territories, others toward nearby bars. Alastor left the building with quick steps, determined to disappear into his shadows and not think anymore about—
"Alastor."
The voice stopped him.
Vox was in the adjacent alley, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. The neon light from a nearby sign painted his silhouette in shades of blue and purple.
"Your partners?" Alastor asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Valentino went to close a deal with some traffickers. Velvette went with him. I have an hour."
"And?"
"And," Vox pushed off the wall, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps, "I want to know why you didn't answer my messages."
Alastor didn't move.
"I don't like that thing. And I had nothing to say."
"You're lying."
Vox was in front of him now. So close. His scent—electricity and ozone, always—filled the space between them.
"I smelled you at the meeting," Vox said, his voice lower. "You smell like apples again."
"And?"
"And," Vox raised a hand, his fingers brushing Alastor's lapel, "I want to know if it's something I should care about."
Alastor caught his wrist before he could pull away.
"Do you care?"
The silence stretched. Heavy. Electric.
"Yes," Vox whispered, and the word was terrible to pronounce. "Damn it. Yes, I care."
Alastor looked at him. Those bicolor eyes. That screen flickering with static he couldn't control. This omega—his omega—who dared to ask, to demand.
"Lucifer..." he said, and the word tasted like a lie in his mouth, "is nothing."
"And me?"
"You," Alastor pulled his wrist, drawing him closer, "are... too much."
The kiss was inevitable.
And when they parted—panting, desperate—Vox rested his forehead against Alastor's.
"I have forty-five minutes," he whispered.
"It's not enough."
"I know." Vox smiled, but it was a small smile. "But it's what we have."
The shadows enveloped them before Alastor could respond.