Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sett adjusted himself, tucking away his lingering hardness with a mix of frustration and satisfaction. Intercourse with Aphelios was nothing short of tantalizing, even if this was only the second time they had come together. Yet, it never seemed to satiate the seemingly endless reserves of vitality coursing through the Primarch’s veins—or whatsoever. The Lunari, however, was a different story—sprawled on the sofa, legs carelessly spread, and faint trails of fluid marking pale thighs. The sight stirred something primal in him, but he reined himself in. There would be time to cultivate Aphelios' endurance later. For now, other matters demanded his attention.

Yes, he had agreed to help Aphelios find his sister, but there was more to it than just the Lunari’s plea. Sett’s mind churned over the deeper implications, his ears flattening slightly with unease. Swain’s recent caution gnawed at him; the Noxian kingpin never acted without reason, and his uncharacteristically delicate maneuvers reeked of hidden motives. Sett hated not knowing the full picture—it left too much room for danger. Worse, there wasn’t any coherent logic in the scattered intelligence the Pitspire’s syndicate had managed to gather. Swain’s intentions remained a frustrating enigma, and that made Sett’s instincts prickle with distrust.

The encounter with Aphelios had seemed like a stroke of luck—an anomaly in the chaos Settright was used to navigating. Yet, as he pieced together everything the Lunari had shared, certain details nagged at him. This was the first time he’d ever heard of Swain receiving girls from outside his usual channels, a deviation that felt oddly specific. It was a detail that could align with something Samira had mentioned before, during one of her reports about the recent dock raids. That alone was strange enough to set Sett on edge. If what Aphelios claimed was true, then he knew exactly who could provide some answers.

A creeping doubt began to surface, one that gnawed at his instincts. Maybe they’d been wrong from the start. The weapon trafficking, which had seemed like the obvious reason for the Noxian syndicate’s encroachment, might not be the true motive after all. His half-beast gut told him there was more to this, and if he was right, they’d been chasing the wrong trail entirely. The pieces didn’t add up—not yet—but he was certain the answer lay in the missing part of this damn puzzle.

Sett’s natural inclination was to take the direct route, to storm Swain’s quarters and tear down everything until he got what he wanted. They knew where the Noxian kingpin was squatting, after all, and a swift strike would save time and settle his frustration. But the nagging feeling in his gut wouldn’t let him commit to such a reckless move. Something about all of this felt... off. The Primarch wasn’t the type to second-guess himself, but his instincts had never steered him wrong before. No, rushing in blind wasn’t the answer—not this time.

Towering over the naked body which hadn’t moved from its languid sprawl on the sofa, the Boss’ gaze lingered, tracing every detail of the Lunari’s vulnerable form. His eyes fell to the soft curve of his flaccid cock, the pearlescent strands of come streaking the dark pubic hair of his pale v-line and his thighs, and the flushed, reddened rim of his hole. The sight stirred at the deep, primal and raw hunger that coursed through his veins like wildfire. His half-rigid cock twitched, the pulse of desire threatening to harden him fully again.

For a fleeting moment, Sett entertained the thought of taking Aphelios once more, of ravishing him without regard for his unconscious state. The image sent a wave of heat surging through him, but he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to rein it in. There was a line he wouldn’t cross—not yet.

Grabbing the Lunari’s discarded clothes from earlier, Settrigh used the fabric to clean away the remnants of their encounter. It wasn’t a gesture of kindness; he simply didn’t want the mess to stain the leathery furniture. Sure, he could afford a new sofa, but dealing with replacing it was a hassle he didn’t have the patience for right now. Once satisfied with the result, Sett tossed the soiled fabric aside without a second thought.

Aphelios stayed where he was, bare and resting, his pale form still and unguarded. The Primarch didn’t bother dressing him—there was no point. The Lunari wasn’t going anywhere and his hospitality ended there.

Sett returned to his office’s desk, glancing at the time on his smartwatch. The sleek device strapped around his wrist was one of the many custom technologies he’d commissioned from Soraka. He had discovered early on that she was more than just skilled at stitching up wounds; she was a talented pharmacist and an undeniable tech nerd. It was almost tragic that she was stuck working as a nurse in Ionia City’s main hospital when her talents could go far beyond that.

Their paths had crossed years ago during his university days. One afternoon, as Settrigh was walking back from a café after his break, he saw a man on a bike intentionally collide with a visibly disoriented boy. Without hesitation, the student had beaten the crap out of the reckless rider before scooping up the frightened kid and taking him to the hospital. That was where he met Soraka for the first time. Watching her expertly care for the boy and calmly track down his parents, Sett couldn’t shake the feeling that she was far more capable than she let on.

Later, when Ezreal ended up in desperate need of medical attention, the Boss sought her out again. This time, he cut straight to the point: would she be interested in a more lucrative line of work? To his surprise, she accepted without hesitation or questioning.

It wasn’t long before Sett uncovered her many hidden talents. Soraka didn’t just sew limbs back together—she innovated. Among her creations was the smartwatch now on his wrist, a device Sett had dubbed TraceLock. It functioned as a phone, complete with an integrated earpiece, and could connect to countless other gadgets. But its most crucial feature was the GPS tracker. The Pitspire’s leader wasn’t a stalker, but the underworld was rife with dangers. Even though his partners and loyal crew were more than capable, the TraceLock allowed him to locate anyone who went missing—a safeguard he wasn’t willing to forgo.

For now, though, he still had time before Samira would have the car ready. He settled into his office chair, lifting the lid of his laptop. He began scrolling through the various reports they had on Swain, piecing together the fragments of intel that might give him an edge.

His gaze kept drifting back to the naked Lunari sprawled across the sofa. Despite his best efforts to focus on his work, his eyes betrayed him, drawn to the striking elegance of Aphelios’ form. The curve of pale skin, unmarred in places yet marked with subtle traces of his own dominance, captivated him. The faint sheen of sweat accentuated the delicate lines of his body, and the soft rise and fall of his chest was almost hypnotic.

It wasn’t just lust that held Sett’s attention, though that restless heat simmered in his veins, threatening to ignite. No, it was something more—the undeniable allure of the Lunari’s ethereal beauty. The Primarch had an eye for remarkable things, whether it was the craftsmanship of a rare weapon, the sleek and aerodynamic shape of a Porsche,  the artistry of a tattoo, or the quiet grace of the man now sprawled across his sofa.

A sudden ping from his laptop dragged his attention away. His eyes darted to the mail notification that had popped up in the corner of the screen. Another spam message. No—another Lunari wanted advertisement.

The content was all too familiar—the same five faces of Lunari fugitives displayed prominently, Aphelios’ picture among them. This time, though, Sett’s attention was drawn to the girl’s face in the corner, one that shared unmistakable features with the captive Lunari. Different hair color, sure, but there was no mistaking it—they were twins. This was Alune.

His jaw tightened as he scrolled further, noting two additional faces added to the wanted list. He didn’t linger on them, dismissing the entire email with a sharp click to delete. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. He wasn’t anti-Lunari or anti-anything, for that matter. Sett had no patience for the prejudices and political games that plagued Targon City. The whispers he’d heard over the years had been enough to paint a grim picture—Lunari hunted like criminals simply for existing, their oppression hidden beneath layers of bureaucracy and so-called order.

The thought made his ears twitch irritably. That kind of hatred had no place in his turf. The Boss ran things differently in his home; he didn’t tolerate injustice. Period. He wouldn’t allow his people— his family —to suffer under anyone’s thumb. He fought on his terms, in his way, and made damn sure no one trampled on the lives he cared about.

More thoughts churned as he leaned back in his chair, his golden gaze flickering back to the unconscious Lunari sprawled on the sofa. He wasn’t naive—Aphelios wasn’t a spy. The man was clearly a desperate fugitive, running to save his sister from whatever hell awaited her. But there was something else, something deeper hidden beneath the surface, and Sett couldn’t trust him. Not yet. Not until he’d peeled back every layer of the living enigma.

He wouldn’t send him to Targon City. The Lunari didn’t belong in the chains of anyone else, least of all the Solari. But in Sett’s chains? That was another matter entirely . This wasn’t injustice—this was possession. And the Primarch knew the truth already: that body craved him.

If saving the Lunari’s sister would help break the man’s defiance and bind him closer, so be it. The Pitspire’s leader would gladly do it, especially since their enemy seemed to be one and the same. The corners of his lips curled into a faint smirk as he considered the irony of it all.

Shaking off the thought, he straightened in his chair and tapped a message onto his smartwatch, his fingers moving with calculated precision. The order was simple: no words about the Lunari were to leave the Den and the Pitspire’s syndicate. He snorted at the simple thumbs-up he received in response, but he knew no one would question his decision. He was their boss, after all.

Satisfied, he opened a drawer, pulling out a sleek black box. He flipped it open to reveal a brand new TraceLock. Settrigh took the device in hand, its weight familiar and comforting, then strode back toward the sofa where the Lunari lay motionless. A low rumble resonated in his chest as he approached the sofa, the lingering scent of sex growing stronger with each step. God, Sett had always indulged in pleasure, but this—this was driving his desire to an entirely new level.

Without ceremony, he snapped the TraceLock around Aphelios’ wrist. The device clicked into place, its sleek design a stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. Without bothering with gentleness, he roused him.

Aphelios stirred, his lashes fluttering as consciousness returned. At first, his moonlit eyes found the Primarch, wide and unfocused with confusion. But realization dawned quickly—the room, the cool air on his bare skin, and the weight of Sett’s presence looming nearby. Confusion gave way to a flicker of defiance, followed closely by shame, his body stiffening as he instinctively tried to shift and cover himself.

Sett’s gaze didn’t waver, catching the moment when Aphelios’ attention locked onto the device secured around his wrist. The Lunari’s lips parted slightly, unspoken questions clear in his expression, but whatever words had threatened to surface were swallowed back down. He stayed silent, his defiance smoldering just beneath the surface. Good. The Boss didn’t need him talking—yet.

He jabbed a finger toward the bedroom door, his voice low and firm, carrying the unyielding weight of authority. “Get dressed,” he ordered, his golden eyes narrowing. “You’ve got five minutes. If I have to do it for you, you won’t like how that turns out.” His gaze swept over Aphelios, a silent warning, before he added with a flick of his head, “There’s plenty in the dresser. Move.”

Sett crossed his arms, watching as Aphelios slowly pushed himself up from the sofa. The Lunari still moved with a limp, his steps uneven and strained as he headed toward the bedroom. The Primarch’s golden eyes followed the curve of Aphelios’ bare buttocks, lingering on the faint redness that made it clear his discomfort wasn’t just from the swollen ankle. A smirk tugged at Settrigh’s lips.

But it was gone as fast as it came. Soraka’s medicines were usually quick to do their work, but the puffiness around the Lunari’s ankle was evidence enough he’d been skipping his last doses.

Debating whether to do something about it, Sett clicked his tongue. He shook his head. It wasn’t his problem. If Aphelios wanted to make things harder for himself, so be it. Limping like that, he wasn’t getting far anyway.

It didn’t take long before Aphelios reappeared, clearly taking Sett’s warning seriously. The Lunari limped back into the room, his movements stiff and deliberate. The Primarch’s gaze locked onto him immediately, sweeping over his figure. He’d managed to scavenge a pair of pants and a shirt from the dresser, paired with his old shoes—the only item that had survived Soraka’s ruthless purge. His original clothes had been so shredded and stained with blood that they’d been discarded without a second thought.

The sight before him was both disarming and striking. The slight frame was swallowed by the oversized clothes, the fabric pooling slightly at the Lunari’s wrists and hips. And yet, the contrast only heightened his allure. His pale skin gleamed like marble against the black fabric, his disheveled hair falling in loose strands over his moonlit eyes. 

A thought flickered unbidden in Settrigh’s mind: How would he look in something fitted? Probably breathtaking. Though he had to admit, naked was better.

His chest tightened as another wave of want surged through him, raw and primal, settling heavily in his cock. He clenched his jaw, forcing the feeling down to where it couldn’t distract him. Desire could wait—there was work to do. And where he intended to go, no one could be allowed to see Aphelios in this state. The thought of another pair of eyes on the Lunari's bare skin sent a sharp, possessive spark through him, only adding fuel to the fire he was trying to contain. 

With a slow exhale to ground himself, he growled, his tone leaving no room for argument. "We’re going," 

Moving to the door, his hand paused over an umbrella stand before pulling out a cane. Polished ebony wood gleamed in the light, the handle intricately carved into the head of a snarling beast, its eyes set with tiny, glinting rubies. He couldn’t even remember where he’d acquired it—probably some impulse buy, drawn by its craftsmanship. It was the kind of object that belonged in a life of luxury, so commonplace in his world it was almost forgettable.

Without warning, he tossed it to Aphelios. The Lunari caught it despite his surprise, his pale fingers tightening around the sleek surface. His eyes narrowed, flashing with defiance as he adjusted his grip.

“Do you want me to carry you?” Sett’s grin was sharp, a glint of pointy teeth that carried the weight of mockery beneath its casual edge.

Aphelios’ knuckles whitened around the cane, as though he might snap it in two through sheer force of will. The defiance in his gaze burned brighter, but he said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” the Primarch murmured, his tone laced with satisfaction. He lingered for a moment longer, watching the silent war play out across Aphelios’ face. Despite his battered appearance, the Lunari’s spirit remained intact, unyielding in its quiet resistance. And maybe, Sett mused, that was exactly what he wanted—a spark that refused to be snuffed out.

Moving confidently through the winding halls of his mansion, Sett exuded a sense of ownership that came effortlessly. Behind him, the rhythmic tap of Aphelios’ cane echoed off the polished marble floors, each sound a reminder of the stark contrast between them. The grand corridors were a testament to his immense wealth—an empire built on underground dealings, lucrative fights, and business acumen that kept many elites in his pocket.

The walls were adorned with intricate tapestries depicting Ionia’s rich history, their craftsmanship a nod to tradition, interspersed with bold, modern art pieces that boasted his eclectic and unapologetically expensive taste. Gilded light fixtures hung from vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, golden glow on the rich mahogany paneling that lined the halls. A faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, a custom blend imported from the Placidium—a small luxury, one of countless others, that barely scratched the surface of his riches.

This wasn’t the kind of wealth that came from inheritance or old money. Settrigh had clawed his way to the top, starting with the bruised knuckles and raw fists in street fighting. Now, the mansion stood as a symbol of everything he’d built—an empire that dwarfed the petty power plays of his rivals. And yet, even as he walked through this monument to his success, there was no hint of arrogance in his stride. It was simply his, as much a part of him as the sharp edge of his grin or the strength in his hands.

And with every coin of gold deposited into his account, another drug dealer or rapist disappeared from his turf. Hence, the thud-thud-thud of the cane was a reminder of the fragility trailing behind him. 

For anyone else, taking a prisoner out for a walk might have seemed reckless—a foolish gamble ripe for disaster. But he wasn’t just anyone, and the Primarch didn’t gamble. He didn’t need to. Every move he made was calculated, his confidence rooted in his strength and smarts.

Aphelios had already tried to stab him once—with a spoon, no less. But there was no real concern. Settrigh’s strength, cunning, and sheer presence made any resistance futile, and if another attempt came, it would end quickly. Besides, there was no escaping this arrangement. The ties binding him weren’t just desperation, though that was strong enough—his sister’s life precariously held in Sett’s hands. But it wasn’t only that. A deeper bond had begun to form, one seeded in a need the Lunari’s body couldn’t ignore, no matter how much his pride resisted.

The thought stirred something unexpected in Sett—a mix of satisfaction and a faint bitterness. Power was his currency, and he wielded it without hesitation, yet some part of him wished the fire in those moonlit eyes wouldn’t burn out completely. That defiance, strong enough to meet his gaze unflinchingly, was something he’d respected, even admired. It fueled his desire; witnessing it diminish, even slightly and twice already, left a hollow note amid the symphony of control.

As they walked, the Boss glanced over his shoulder, catching fleeting glimpses of Aphelios. The Lunari's shoulders were tense, his expression a mask of quiet resolve. Shadows danced across his pale features, accentuating the hollowness in his cheeks. Sett pushed away a pang of something dangerously close to pity. There was no room for such sentiment.

Eventually, they reached the elevator—a sleek contraption of black glass and cold steel that descended soundlessly to the underground garage. When the doors slid open, the dimly lit space greeted them with the scent of motor oil and fresh leather. Rows of expensive cars gleamed under the harsh, artificial light, but Sett’s attention shifted immediately to Samira.

She stood at attention near the cherry-red Ford Mustang, careful not to lean against its pristine surface. One booted foot tapped a subtle rhythm on the pavement, her green eye fixed on Sett as he approached. “What kept you?” she asked, her tone respectful yet edged with the faintest exasperation. Despite their close partnership, she maintained a professional demeanor, befitting her role as his bodyguard.

The Primarch shrugged, the motion as dismissive as it was infuriating. “I was busy.”

Samira’s gaze flicked past him, landing on Aphelios. Her expression shifted from calm to amusement, and a mocking snort escaped her lips. “Busy? Oh, I get it—you had to handle personal business again.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his golden eyes slid over to the Lunari, drinking in his reaction. Aphelios’ face reddened, his jaw clenched as he turned away. Every line of his body was rigid with embarrassment, and he seemed determined to fix his gaze anywhere but at Sett or Samira. The sight was… delightful. The Boss allowed himself a small, cold smile, his ears flicking upward with a mix of pride and satisfaction. “I did,” he said, the words clipped and dripping with a hint of haughtiness and possessiveness.

“Get in the car,” Sett ordered, his voice sharp with authority. The woman’s grin softened as she moved to open the door for Aphelios. Her gaze lingered briefly, assessing, before she stepped aside. With a surprising gentleness, she helped him settle in, the playful edge in her manner replaced with a quiet attentiveness.

The whole time, the half-beast’s golden eyes remained fixed on the Lunari, taking in every detail—the stiff defiance in his posture, the restraint in each movement, as though every step was a deliberate act of rebellion. It was a battle of control, silent but fierce, and Sett couldn’t help but admire the strength it took for the Lunari to hold his ground despite everything.

The leather creaked softly as Sett slid into the driver’s seat, his movements instinctive and precise. His bodyguard settled into the passenger seat, her posture relaxed but sharp-eyed as always. His hands gripped the wheel, the smooth leather familiar beneath his fingers. The car—sleek, powerful, and undeniably luxurious—was one of the few indulgences he allowed himself, a private space that felt like an extension of his control.

The Den, for all its grandeur, never felt like they belonged to him alone. Even though the signature on every deed and contract was his, Settrigh had always seen them as shared spaces. The personal quarters, offices, and training halls were built with purpose—each room reflecting the needs of those who lived and worked there. The fidèle staff, loyal to the core, treated the mansion as their home as much as his, and it was a home he was proud to provide.

Kayn and Samira had their own studios in the mansion, custom-designed for the lives they’d built under his guidance. When he’d taken them under his wing, it wasn’t out of charity; they’d earned their places, and he’d made sure they had everything they needed to thrive. Even Ezreal had a space of his own, though the blond rarely used it—he had a more important task watching over Sett’s mother.

Sex, power, and the thrill of a good fight—none of those things cost him a cent. People were always eager to crawl into his lap for free, and breaking scum’s faces required nothing more than a well-placed fist. But driving this car? That was different. This was his indulgence. No one else drove it—not even Samira, except to prepare it for him. This was his space, his control, and as the engine purred to life beneath him, he felt a fleeting sense of peace.

Sett exhaled, the rumble of the engine coming to life beneath him. It wasn’t the luxury that mattered. It was what it represented: a sanctuary, not just for him, but for the people he trusted, those he called his own.

He glanced at Aphelios in the rearview mirror. The Lunari met his eyes briefly before looking away, still clutching the cane as if it might shatter in his grasp. As he pressed down on the accelerator, the car roared forward, and the world blurred past them, but Sett’s focus remained razor-sharp—on the road. For now.

The car glided out of the mansion's gated driveway, the gentle purr of the engine and the low hum of the tires on the pavement filling the silence. The Primarch gripped the steering wheel with practiced ease, eyes on the road, though his focus wandered. His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, drawn irresistibly to the figure in the backseat. The Lunari sat quietly, his attention fixed on the blur of the passing night city. That detachment gnawed at Sett, setting his teeth on edge. He wanted—no, needed —those sharp, piercing eyes on him again. The way they’d burned when their bodies collided, when every soft breath and trembling moan spoke volumes. That was the attention he craved. His fingers tightened on the wheel as a surge of heat rose unbidden, low and primal. He swallowed it down, jaw clenching hard to keep from growling aloud.

Beside him, Samira shifted, her arms folded neatly over her chest. The faint rustle of her tailored suit jacket broke the silence, a subtle reminder of her poised demeanor. “So,” she said, her tone level but with a trace of impatience bleeding through, “care to share what’s so urgent about this little detour, Boss? I know you’ve got bigger priorities.” Her words were measured, her brow arching slightly, not in challenge but in genuine curiosity.

Sett’s golden eyes remained locked on the road ahead, the car’s headlights casting long beams into the night and he tightened his jaw. “We’re meeting Lest.” His voice was curt, leaving little room for further questions. Sometimes, he wished his bodyguard could keep her thoughts to herself. He knew she remembered his passing mentions of the Velvet Lantern—why else would she call this a detour? But unfortunately for her assumptions, the Primarch wasn’t heading there to indulge in the company of one or two alluring bed companions. This trip had a purpose.

She blinked, momentarily thrown off. Then, leaning slightly forward, Samira regarded him with genuine surprise. “Lest? You’re serious?” Her tone was sharp, incredulous, as her brows shot upward. “That old fox?”

He glanced briefly at her, then back to the road. “They have answers we need.”

Samira narrowed her eyes, searching his face for more. When no further explanation came, she leaned back, a hint of frustration crossing her features. “What kind of answers? And don’t give me that ‘wait and see’ crap.”

Fingers drummed lightly against the steering wheel, a rare glimpse of agitation slipping past his controlled exterior. Sett’s ears flicked briefly—a subtle tell that Samira didn’t miss. He mulled over his words, carefully choosing how much to reveal with the third presence seated silently in the backseat. “Something’s missing. Pieces aren’t adding up. Swain’s been... too careful, or maybe not acting at all. If we stayed focused on the initial lead about weapons trafficking, we should’ve already uncovered evidence of illegal arms smuggled into Weh’le by now. But with the traveler you mentioned and....” His voice dipped into a low growl and he trailed off, unwilling to say more with Aphelios within earshot.

“I want confirmation on what we’re missing,” he continued, gripping the wheel tighter. “Lest can give me that. They owe me.”

The woman studied him, her expression sharpening. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“No,” the Primarch admitted, his voice low, steady, and cold. “I’m not.” His ears twitched again, but this time in frustration. The truth was, he wasn’t keeping her in the dark because he wanted to—he had nothing solid to give. Just an unshakable sense that something about the entire situation reeked of bad omens. That instinct alone wasn’t enough to build a plan, and he hated walking blind.

The tense silence thickened. Samira’s gaze slid toward the rearview mirror, locking briefly on the reflection of their passenger. Sett followed her gaze, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. In the backseat, the Lunari sat still, his focus trained elsewhere, tracing shapes in the blurring nightlife that only he seemed to see.

Samira let out a soft huff, a sound that straddled exasperation and pity. “You think he’s part of it? The missing piece?”

The Primarch didn’t respond immediately. His gaze flicked to the faint reflection of the Lunari in the rearview mirror. The man appeared calm, but a shadow lingered in his expression—haunted yet defiant, with something buried deep beneath the layers of torment. Something worth digging out, even if it required force. “Not directly,” Sett said at last, his voice gravelly with conviction. “But his sister is.”

The silence in the car was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the Mustang and the muted bustle of Navori’s night streets slipping past the windows. Sett’s knuckles whitened against the steering wheel, the tension in his grip echoing the weight of his words. That unwelcome pull stirred again, a gnawing awareness of the man in the backseat. Whether it was defiance or quiet vulnerability, Aphelios had a way of commanding attention without effort. Sett’s jaw tightened, forcing his gaze to stay on the road ahead. The neon glow reflected off the windshield, sharp and unyielding—just like his resolve. 

But Settrigh despised that feeling—an unrelenting need for dominance, tangled with a primal hunger he couldn’t shake. Control had always been his domain, the thing that defined him. Yet, doubt began to claw at the edges of his resolve. It wasn’t just the loss of control that unnerved him—it was the unsettling sense that something, or worse, someone, was poised to seize it from him.

Samira broke the tension with a low whistle. “You’re a complicated bastard, you know that?”

“Keep your observations to yourself,” the Primarch shot back, his tone cool, lacking its usual bite. He shifted gears, the engine growling as the car surged forward. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again. Aphelios remained by the window, his gaze unfocused on the passing streets. Sett knew better. The Lunari had heard every word, though he gave no sign—no shift, no reaction—just that same detached stillness masking a deeper awareness.

There it was again, that familiar stir of frustration. It irked him. Sett craved that focus—wanted to see the Lunari’s gaze sharpen, darken with the intensity meant only for him. He wanted what he'd had before, and that longing twisted inside him, threatening to consume him. His cock stirred in response, a traitorous reminder of what he craved, of what he imagined he could do to Aphelios to make him notice, to make him want . Settrigh gritted his teeth, forcing the thought down, and slammed the accelerator. The red Mustang roared into the night, the sound of it drowning out everything but the road ahead.

As they neared the Silk Crimson Quarter, the neon glow bathed the streets in a seductive, almost protective light. Unlike other red-light districts in cities outside the Primarch’s control, where shadows and secrecy thrived, this one felt different—clean, almost elegant. It bore the unmistakable mark of Sett’s influence. Where others preyed on desperation, his establishments offered sanctuary—a regulated haven where sex workers could work without fear of exploitation or violence. He had turned carnal pleasure into an illegally legal business. He believed in security, respect, and a sense of family. This district wasn’t just another asset in his empire; it was a shield, built on the unshakable laws of safety and dignity. Another bold display of Sett’s wealth and power in his own turf, playing his cards openly under the Royals' watch.

The exterior of the main pleasure house mirrored that sentiment. The facade was a blend of luxurious and tasteful, with intricately carved marble columns and tinted glass that both invited and guarded. Hints of warm red and soft gold lighting gave it an intimate glow, promising more than just indulgence; it promised discretion and safety. As the car passed the building, high above the main doors, an emblem—a rose entwined with a flowing red silk ribbon—glowed alluringly in golden neon light.

Sett drove through a gated entrance into a secured underground garage, the barrier lifting seamlessly as his vehicle approached, recognizing both the car and its driver. Surveillance cameras followed their every move, a silent guarantee that no harm would touch those under his protection. As he parked the car in its designated area, the soft hum of the engine faded, leaving only the faint sounds of the city above.

The Boss stepped out of the car first, the low hum of the underground garage filling the silence. The sharp click of his expensive shoes against the concrete echoed in the enclosed space as his golden eyes swept the area, assessing every shadow and corner. With a curt nod, he motioned for Aphelios to follow, his presence commanding without words and Samira followed a few paces behind. Together, they ascended the stairwell to head into the heart of the pleasure house, leaving the sterile chill of the garage behind for the Velvet Lantern’s warm, heady atmosphere of silk, scent, and secrets.

The interior was opulent without being ostentatious. Soft light spilled from elegant chandeliers, illuminating plush carpets and tastefully arranged seating areas. The air was fragrant with hints of sandalwood and jasmine, meant to relax the senses. The staff moved with quiet efficiency, each person attired in a manner that balanced allure and professionalism. Here, there was no hint of desperation—only confidence, poise, and respect. 

Some of the staff worked diligently behind the scenes, managing logistics to ensure every client and worker was protected, their needs anticipated with precision. Others served as companions, trained not just in the art of pleasure but in the subtleties of conversation, empathy, and discretion. Membership to the Velvet Lantern was exclusive, available only to those who passed a rigorous vetting process. Background checks were mandatory, delving deep into financial stability, personal conduct, and social standing to guarantee that no threat—physical or reputational—ever entered its walls. The steep membership fees were not merely a price of entry but an investment in unparalleled luxury and security.

Discretion, however, was paramount. Guards in tailored suits patrolled the premises unobtrusively, blending seamlessly into the lavish surroundings. Advanced surveillance systems operated in silence, their presence invisible to clients but omnipresent to staff. Every precaution ensured that the Velvet Lantern remained a sanctuary of choice—a haven where desires were explored without fear, and where those who worked there were treated with respect and dignity. A sanctuary wrapped in silk and steel.

Naturally, Sett was greeted as soon as he stepped inside. Heads turned, whispers stirred, and gazes lingered on him—some bold, others fleeting. He carried himself with the effortless charisma of someone who owned not just the building but the attention of everyone within it. The tailored cut of his shirt emphasized the powerful lines of his toned body, and the subtle smirk tugging at his lips betrayed his pride in it. His frequent indulgence in the establishment’s pleasures only amplified his allure, making him a figure both respected and desired.

But tonight, those lingering gazes weren’t solely for him. There was curiosity—flickering between him and his companions, especially the figure limping quietly at his side. Settrigh didn’t need to look to know. The weight of their attention was palpable, the whispers shifting in tone, wondering who the Lunari was to earn such proximity to the Primarch of Navori’s Underground.

Unconsciously, his steps aligned with the Lunari’s, his powerful stride tempered to match the rhythm of Aphelios’ tap of the cane against the floor. A low growl rumbled in Sett’s throat, his ears bristling with an instinctive edge. If anyone thought he was parading his latest conquest, they couldn’t be more wrong. Aphelios wasn’t some fleeting trophy to flaunt or share. This one was his. And his alone.

No one in this place would dare lay a finger on what belonged to him. The very thought of it ignited a dangerous, possessive edge in his chest. Maybe he should put a collar around that delicate, pale neck—one adorned with something unmistakable, an emblem of his claim. The notion sent a heated pulse through him, stirring his lust like a flame catching on dry timber. He pushed the thought aside with a grunt, his fingers flexing at his sides. 

The journey ended at a pair of grand double doors, their rich mahogany surface carved with lush scenes of blooming roses and entwined ribbons, the edges inlaid with gilded accents that shimmered under the low ambient light. The design exuded a sensual elegance, hinting at the indulgent pleasures within. The Primarch didn’t pause to knock; this was his domain. With a firm push, the doors swung open, revealing a room filled with soft light and the faintest strains of music. 

Lest lounged with an easy grace across a sprawling bed draped in light, sheer fabric that cascaded elegantly from the ceiling, its translucent panels catching the soft glow of embedded LED strands. The room exuded a lush, almost ethereal beauty—a blend of golden warmth, pristine whites, and hints of soft blue hues that danced like rippling silk across the walls, projected from concealed panels. Digital portraits adorned the walls, their display shifting in a slow, hypnotic rhythm to reveal intimate scenes of bodies entwined in moments of raw passion and sensuality. Each image dissolved seamlessly into the next, the transitions smooth as a lover’s caress.

The air carried a heady blend of exotic spices and floral undertones, rich and intoxicating, teasing the senses with every breath. The furniture and décor whispered of unparalleled luxury—delicate embroidery on the sheer hangings, polished marble floors flecked with gold that shimmered under the light, and a sleek, low table with an integrated touch interface glowing faintly in the corner, hinting at further indulgences hidden within reach

As they noticed Sett's entrance, Lest moved with fluidity, rising gracefully from the bed. The drapery that had partially concealed their form slipped away, pooling soundlessly at their feet. They stood before the Boss, unabashed and radiant, their body on full display. Every part of Lest’s appearance spoke of refined beauty, a mix of allure and raw sensuality designed to captivate any gaze. "Hello, Settrigh," they drawled, their voice a smooth, lilting melody. Reaching for a long, intricately carved smoke pipe, they took a slow, deliberate drag, exhaling a plume of fragrant smoke that curled lazily into the air before stepping closer.

"Lest, always a pleasure to see you shining as beautifully as a jewel," the Primarch replied with a low, smooth voice. He reached out, taking their hand with a practiced elegance and pressing a kiss to the back of it. He grinned, concealing with deftness the unpleasant bristle of his ears.

Lest was of the fennec fox tribe, their Vastayan heritage evident in every striking detail. Tall and statuesque, their ivory skin was dotted with delicate gray freckles that seemed to shimmer under the ambient light. Their elongated legs, reminiscent of an animal’s, ended in clawed, white paws that balanced their form with an inherent poise. Their hands were slender, with long, deft fingers tipped with black claws that contrasted beautifully with the wealth of gold jewelry adorning them—rings, wrist cuffs, and chains that jingled softly with each movement alongside the long and plushy white and grey tail reaching to the floor.

Their face was an exquisite blend of human and foxish features, as if carved from porcelain. Golden-yellow eyes, bright and sharp, gleamed beneath a wild mane of dark, curled hair that framed their face and fell to their shoulders. A dark, fox-like snout gave way to full, sensuous red lips, and long white-and-black ears twitched, attuned to every sound and movement. Their chest bore a gentle, feminine curve. Between their slender thighs, a small, soft cock dangled alongside a pair of smooth, rounded nuts. They were entirely bare except for the array of gold jewelry: necklaces that draped over their chest, belly chains that glimmered against taut skin, and anklets that chimed with every step. The jewelry was as much a part of them as their flesh, accentuating their lithe frame and leaving no doubt about their allure. 

Sett's attention flicked briefly to Aphelios. The Lunari’s attempt to avert his gaze was obvious, but his eyes betrayed him, darting back to Lest despite the cold, almost imperceptible mask he tried to maintain. The half-beast’s lips curled into a small, knowing smirk, feeling the tension simmering in the air. Was it disgust? Fascination? Or something else entirely? Whatever it was, Aphelios was doing his best to hide it—but Sett could see through it.

"What brings me this honor?" Lest purred, their gaze sliding over to Aphelios with curiosity and amusement. "Do you require my expertise to train this one?"

Since Aphelios wasn’t exactly skilled in bed, he did, indeed, need some teaching. But Sett wouldn’t let anyone else handle that. He would take care of it himself. The Primarch chuckled, a dark, teasing edge lacing his voice. "No need for that. He’s already shown… quite the talent."

Sett’s gaze flicked to Aphelios, catching the slight stiffening of his shoulders—a subtle tension that betrayed the stoic mask he wore. The reaction didn’t escape Lest either. They arched a brow, their smirk widening as they took another slow drag from their pipe, the fragrant smoke curling lazily around them. "Are you sure? This rough stone looks like it needs a lot more polishing before it shines like a diamond."

"I’m here on matters of importance," Sett said, shifting the mood. He nodded to Samira, who immediately understood. Without a word, she exited, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Sett trusted her implicitly; she would ensure they would not be disturbed or overheard.

Lest gestured for them to sit, their golden jewelry chiming softly with the motion—a sound that made Sett’s ears twitch in irritation.

The armchair’s velvet upholstery creaked softly as the Pitspire’s Boss settled into it, his golden gaze tracking Aphelios’ every move. The Lunari made his way toward the sofa with measured steps, each one stiff and deliberate, though the faint limp in his stride betrayed him. However, he seemed determined to mask his discomfort, his back straight and his expression impassive. Unfortunately for Sett, he was just like another open book : too easy to read when his sharp and unyielding gaze flicked across the room, analyzing every detail, as though searching for threats, allies, or even an escape.

Their host reclined effortlessly on a long chaise, their lithe form displayed with unapologetic ease, the soft glow of the room accentuating the curves and angles of their bare skin. One arm rested beneath their head, while the other held their smoke pipe with languid elegance. They drew in a slow, deliberate breath, the sweet aroma of exotic herbs mingling with the room’s heady perfume. As they exhaled, a plume of smoke spiraled lazily upward, veiling the playful glimmer in their golden eyes, which remained fixed on Sett.

Would he sleep with Lest again? The thought flickered briefly before he shoved it aside. Lest was beautiful—a body sculpted to seduce, every curve and motion meant to tempt. But Sett didn’t give a damn about their allure. His hatred for fox tribes ran deep. Though, he’d made an exception here, taking Lest under his protection because of their circumstance unrelated to any tribe. Their one encounter on a filthy mattress had been transactional—the Primarch using them for his own release while they were too desperate to refuse. Lest had been half-dead, strung out, and fucking the madness out of their system had been the only way to snap them back to reality. Two birds, one stone.

Now, Lest was alive, thriving even, working under Sett’s account in a place where they could be screwed by anyone they wanted until exhaustion. If, and that was a big if, Settrigh ever decided to rail them again, it’d be out of convenience, not desire. Hell, he doubted he’d even get hard for it.

Lest raised their wrist, a subtle gesture activating the TraceLock embedded in their ornate bracelet. A faint shimmer of light pulsed briefly before fading, and moments later, a staff member appeared as if summoned by magic. Dressed immaculately in tailored attire that mirrored the room's opulence, their movements were swift and precise. They carried a polished tray adorned with an intricate teapot and delicate porcelain cups. Without a word, the staff member poured the steaming tea with practiced elegance, their every motion fluid and deliberate. Once finished, they bowed slightly and retreated, vanishing as discreetly as they had come.

“Why are you here, Settrigh?” they drawled, their voice deep and resonant, a blend of curiosity and mocking amusement, their golden eyes half-lidded with a feigned disinterest that Sett knew all too well.

Picking up the delicate porcelain cup, the warmth of the tea radiating through Sett’s calloused fingers. He took a slow sip, the flavors of ripe peach and almond lingering on his tongue, subtly sweet with a faint, nutty finish. Lowering the cup, his golden eyes locked onto Lest’s with a stony intensity. "Glasc," he said simply, the name cutting through the room's perfumed air like a blade. The reaction was immediate—a fleeting shadow darkened the Vastaya’s golden eyes before they swiftly masked it, their slender fingers pulling a sheer silks from the lounge chair closer around their lithe frame, as though shielding themselves from an unseen chill.

“I’m not interested,” Lest's response was flat, their elongated ears twitching backward as they took another slow drag from the smoke pipe, the curling tendrils of vapor framing their inscrutable face.

The Primarch’s voice was calm but carried an undercurrent of steel. “If you think I’ll send you out of here and back onto the streets, you’re mistaken. You’re bound to this place, Lest. You work for me until I say otherwise.”

A twitch of irritation crossed Lest’s face, quickly suppressed. They studied the Boss, their gaze simmering. “Then why are you here?” they asked, a touch of defiance lacing their words. 

Sett’s golden eyes slid towards Aphelios, who stiffened under the attention. “Tell them, moon boy,” he said, his tone cold. “Or have you changed your mind?”

The Lunari shifted, his hands clenching tightly around the cane. He exhaled slowly, his gaze cold and calculating but betraying a tremor of pain beneath. “My sister was taken by Glasc. I’m looking for her,” he said, his voice low but firm.

Lest let out a long, heavy sigh, reclining back as they exhaled another cloud of smoke. “I’m sorry, boy,” they said, their tone almost mocking in its detachment. “That’s a lost cause.”

Aphelios’ mask cracked, just for a heartbeat. Sett caught it—the faint quiver of his lips, the light in his eyes dimming to a void of raw, unspoken despair. It was the same helplessness that had clawed at him before, the same desperation, hidden but unmistakable. The Primarch’s blood boiled, heat rising beneath his skin as his ears flattened. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest, primal and warning. His golden gaze, sharp as a predator’s, locked onto Lest with a dangerous intensity.

“What Aphelios meant to say,” Sett interjected, his voice cold as frost, “is that we are looking for Alune. You’ll tell us everything you know about Glasc’s operation—every damn detail of their trafficking methods. Especially regarding the selling of slaves outside Zaun.”

Whatever troubled the fennec flickered in their widening eyes. Sett could see it—old memories and long-buried scars rising unbidden to the surface. They hesitated, a flicker of vulnerability cracking through their otherwise composed facade. It was a look Sett recognized all too well, one he’d seen when he first found Lest—half-dead, discarded like trash in a crate. Soraka had mended their broken body, but some wounds couldn’t be healed. The relentless pull of sex had become both their prison and their coping mechanism, a cycle that no one could break without pain. Rekindling those wounds had been excruciating for everyone involved. But now wasn’t the time for sympathy. The Primarch needed Lest’s cooperation—whether they wanted to give it or not. He’d make them talk.

“Selling slaves?” Lest echoed with a mockery, brows furrowing as they glanced between their guests. “You must be mistaken. Glasc doesn’t sell living beings out.”

The Boss knew plenty about Renata Glasc—her drug machinations, her twisted experimentation with human bodies, implanting forbidden technologies into flesh. Her syndicate’s influence extended far beyond Zaun, reaching deep into the human trafficking underworld, amassing her a monstrous wealth. But what Lest had just admitted didn’t align with what Sett knew. There was a gap, a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

He leaned back in his chair, his golden gaze boring into them. “Explain,” he commanded, his voice a low growl laced with menace. “You were sold too—don’t act like you’ve forgotten.”

On the sofa, Aphelios’ eyes widened. “What?” he said, his voice strained with disbelief.

Lest’s gaze darkened, old pain flickering like smoldering embers in their eyes. “Yes, I was a slave in Glasc’s system,” they said quietly, their voice laced with bitterness. “But pleasure slaves aren’t sold outside of Zaun’s border.”

“I saw the auction!” Aphelios burst out, his voice strained with desperation. “I heard the price they set for Alune!”

“What you witnessed,” Lest answered, taking a long, deliberate drag from their pipe, “was a display. A performance. The cover of a book that hides horrors far deeper within.” They paused, their gaze locking with the Lunari’s. “You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“What do you mean, Lest?” Settrigh growled, his voice low but edged with tension. Anger simmered beneath his exterior—not at Aphelios or even at Lest directly, but at the pieces of the puzzle that refused to fit. There was too much he didn’t know, too much left unsaid, and whatever Swain’s or Renata’s roles in all this were, it only made the gaps feel more insidious.

In truth, Sett had never questioned how the fennec had ended up on his turf in the first place. The only names tied to Lest’s past were Renata Glasc and Ambessa Medarda. But since neither of the powerful Primarchs had directly threatened his territory, he had let it be. He assumed Lest had escaped their captors, forced to crawl through the streets in search of relief from their insatiable, chemically-induced sexual drive.

Shifting, they sat upright, their long tail draping off the side of the lounge chair, curling like a serpent tasting the air. “Prostitutes aren’t sold , Sett,” they said, their voice sharp, tinged with bitterness. “In Zaun, sex workers have two paths: rotting away in filthy brothels or being paraded around as gifts .”

“Lest,” Sett warned, his voice edged with a caution that demanded restraint. But Lest only took another slow drag from their pipe, exhaling a ribbon of smoke with deliberate leisure. Their golden eyes glimmered with dark amusement, as though every word they spoke was a performance.

The Primarch hated the way they drawled through explanations, stretching his patience razor-thin. That smug cockiness grated on him—an affectation, he knew, meant to conceal the cracks of old scars and buried weakness. Or maybe, just maybe, being the number one host of the Velvet Lantern had finally gone to their head.

“The real game,” Lest continued, utterly unbothered, “is something else entirely. The living beings paraded during auctions—women, men, vastaya, yordle”—they snorted, a sharp sound of derision—“whatever. They’re just the façade.” Their gaze slid toward Aphelios, narrowing slightly, like a predator sizing up a wounded prey. “A cover for deeper transactions.”

“Hidden material exchanges,” Sett interjected, his jaw tight, ears pressing back with restrained tension.

Illegal material exchange had always been a lucrative trade, particularly for syndicates with ill intent. Drugs that could hook entire districts, forbidden technologies stolen from Piltover's labs, rare materials like ivory smuggled from distant lands, and weapons capable of tearing through even the most fortified defenses—all fed the relentless hunger for profit. It wasn’t just about the goods themselves but the wealth and power they granted to those with their fingers in the pie. Each transaction added another layer of dominance to those ruthless enough to exploit it, fueling a system that thrived on greed and blood.

It had never occurred to Sett that there could be something deeper and even shadier behind the already vile business of sexual slavery. Maybe he’d never looked because of the sheer disgust he felt for it—the way poor souls like Lest often ended up trapped in such bleak circumstances. Hard lives, crushed under the weight of others' desires, unfair and relentless in their cruelty. To him, the injustice was enough to sour his view of the world, but the thought of another darker layer beneath it all? That left an uncomfortable knot twisting in his gut.

The more the loyal members of the Pitspire’s syndicate dug into Swain’s dealings, the less any of it made sense. The pieces didn’t align, and the trail seemed deliberately obscured. It was baffling, especially given the reputation of Noxus' military government. They were known for being brutally straightforward—when they wanted something, they took it.

Lest inclined their head toward him, the movement smooth and predatory. “Exactly. Even those of us trained and refined for our new owners were never more than tokens—a perverse thank-you gift from Glasc to those who spent generously.”

The Primarch’s eyes darkened with rage. “What were they hiding when they sold you to Ambessa?” he asked, voice steady but lethal. “Why would Medarda get tangled with Glasc?”

Primarch Ambessa’s reputation was well-known, but Sett couldn’t imagine her involvement with Glasc. She would rather manipulate and fight, than lower herself with Glasc or any other drug baron. She wasn’t the type for it, she was brutal and crucial, but she had principles too.

A heavy silence settled over the room, thick and oppressive, until Lest rose slowly, their bare form an unapologetic display of fluid grace. They moved with a languid stride, crossing to a drawer and pulling it open with deft, practiced fingers. Sett’s golden eyes tracked their movements, lingering momentarily on the curves and lines of their body before he forced them away.

But his thoughts betrayed him, unbidden and sharp. The sight merged with fragments of another—Aphelios. That pale skin, unmarred yet fragile, lingered in his mind. The heat it stirred simmered low in his belly, persistent and unwelcome. The Primarch clenched his jaw, pushing it aside. Whatever truth lay buried in this tangled mess, he would unearth it. And once he did, he resolved to find a way to purge this gnawing frustration from his mind.

The Lunari, he decided, would be his reward—deserved and inevitable. As if his cock had a mind of his own, it pulsed in agreement.

Lest returned, holding out a vial filled with a green, smoking liquid. “Maybe something like this,” they said simply. “When I was sold to Noxus, I was just a cover for a shipment. I had no idea what it was. Our lives are already trash—we don’t question anything. We just try to survive. And when you’ve fallen deep enough, you stop asking questions, because no one’s going to tell you anything anyway.” They paused, their gaze hardening. “But if you’re asking about covers now, I’d bet this is the kind of stuff being smuggled into your territory as we speak.”

“The actual fuck is this?” Sett growled, a heavy tension settling into his shoulders. His ears flattened sharply against his head, the movement betraying his rising frustration. “And when exactly were you planning on telling me?”

“I only found it before you arrived,” they replied, an edge of defensiveness creeping into their tone. Lest’s tail flicked sharply behind them, a subtle but clear sign of agitation, while their ears twitched back slightly, betraying their unease. “None of our people brought this in. I’ve already ordered Ohrin to investigate which client might have slipped it past us.”

Taking the vial, the Primarch felt its weight like a stone in his palm. “Good. I’ll keep it. Whatever you find out, I want to know immediately.”

Lest only nodded.

“And by the way, Boss,” they said, their tone casual. “I wasn’t intended to be Ambessa’s toy. Swain isn’t interested in dicks. He just tossed me aside.”

“You mean, you were sold to Swain in the first place?” Sett asked, completely taken off guard by this revelation. “You never told me.”

“You never asked,” they replied matter-of-factly. “And I was never sold .”

The room descended into a heavy silence as Lest took a sip from the long-cold tea. Aphelios hadn’t even touched his cup, his moonlit gaze focused elsewhere. Settrigh observed the Vastaya watching the Lunari, his mind racing, barely able to keep himself from standing and positioning himself between them. He wanted to shield Aphelios from whatever quiet scrutiny Lest was placing on him, but more than that, he had to sort out the information he had just acquired.

In his head, thoughts churned like a storm, pieces of a deadly puzzle slowly falling into place, but no answers to the questions he needed. This wasn’t Shimmer. The Primarch knew Shimmer—he’d dealt with it before. But the vial in his hand was different. It pulsed with an unsettling omen, the weight of it heavy in his grip, and the more he considered it, the more questions piled up .

Was this related to Jericho Swain? What the hell was this substance? How was Aphelios’ sister involved? And why would Swain work with Glasc, if that’s what was happening? If it was the kingpin’s doing, then weapons were off the table. This wasn’t just about guns or blades.

Making any conclusions was impossible for now. Too many unknowns remained. He needed answers, but all he had were more questions. And if this somehow tied back to that Noxian bastard, it was bad news. If he presented his findings now, without solid proof, the Royals would have his head. Royal Irelia wouldn’t hesitate to see him dead, especially with evidence that something like this had been found in one of his establishments. The very thought made Sett’s blood run cold—not because he feared losing his position, but because of what that would mean for those under his protection.

He clenched his hands, golden eyes blazing with the intensity of his thoughts. The danger was more insidious than he’d ever imagined. But Sett wouldn’t stand by and let it consume them all. And he wouldn't let anything break through his cold, unyielding demeanor.

“What did you mean when you said you were prepared?” Aphelios asked, his voice a thin thread that threatened to snap. He had broken Settrigh from his thoughts. Whatever they’re about to answer, he knew the Lunari wouldn’t like it.

Lest turned their upper body towards their guest, their movements deliberate, almost provocative, as they exposed more of themselves. The sight made anger surge anew through the Primarch’s gut, burning hot. “What do you think, boy?” their voice was low, but it cut like a knife. “We’re taught to submit, to spread our legs and offer whatever our owner desires. Conditioned until the body becomes addicted to their touch. It isn’t teaching—it’s torment. They break you, piece by piece, but your mind remains painfully aware, imprisoned in a body that betrays you under the influence of chemicals. For six full weeks.”

Everyone with eyes could see Aphelios’ world unravel. His face drained of color, his dark eyes hollowed with something that was either fear, disgust, or both. The Lunari’s expression froze, a brittle mask concealing the storm beneath. Sett could see it all—the crushing worry for his sister, the helplessness, the disgust at this grim reality.

There it was again—that sight that irked him to no end.

Aphelios was unraveling, guilt and helplessness pouring from him in waves Sett could almost feel. It wasn’t just the Lunari’s trembling hands or the way his gaze dropped to the floor, as if the weight of his emotions was too much to bear. It was everything—the fragility that Aphelios let slip in moments like this. The Primarch hated it. 

Not because it made him uncomfortable, but because this wasn’t how the Lunari should look—not in front of others, and certainly not in a way that left Sett feeling like someone else might step in to take care of it.

The idea alone made his chest tighten. Aphelios was his to steady, his to ground. If the Lunari fell apart, it was Settrigh who’d put him back together. The thought of anyone else even attempting it sent a low growl rippling in his throat, one he barely managed to stifle.

Clenching his jaw, his golden eyes narrowed. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t just about keeping Aphelios intact—it was about control, about showing the Lunari where he belonged. With dominance and rough sex.

“That’s enough, Lest,” the Primarch ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the air. The fennec host merely shrugged, their expression a mix of defiance and amusement. Sett’s tone dropped, dark and menacing. “Now, leave.”

Tilting their head, feigning surprise, Lest’s long ears twitched. “You’re throwing me out of my own room?”

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he growled, his ears flicking backward, the gesture a clear sign of his rising irritation.

With their gaze sweeping the room, Lest’s eyes lingered for a beat too long over the absentminded Lunari before they rose slowly, their bare flaccid cock a deliberate display. Approaching the imposing figure in the armchair, a sigh escaped their lips as they leaned over their Boss, hands brushing lightly against his broad shoulders. Their proximity was bold, suggestive, a calculated move. “If you’re looking for it , it’s under the mattress,” they whispered, their voice low, dripping with implication. “Take as much as you want, Settrigh.”

Behind them, there was a flicker of something in Aphelios’ expression—a flash of unreadable emotions. Before the host could pull away, Sett’s hand shot out, gripping their wrist as he rose to his full height. Even though Lest was a tall Vastaya, the Primarch towered over them. His golden eyes burned with intensity, his silence heavy with unspoken threats.

Lest huffed, wrenching their wrist free with practiced ease. They turned and strode toward the door, their tail flicking once behind them. “That one’s got fire,” they drawled, casting a sly glance at Aphelios. “But manipulating his weaknesses, Settrigh? I thought you were better than that.”

“Get out,” he snarled, his voice simmering with fury.

As Lest opened the door, they found Samira standing there, one eyebrow raised, her expression somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.

“Sam’, have some fun,” Sett ordered curtly.

“Shall we, then?” Lest asked with mock seduction, a wicked grin spreading across their lips and the woman could only glance at them.

“Oh, honey,” she said, laughing. “I don’t sleep with family.”

The number one host of the Velvet Lantern sighed theatrically. “Your loss, sweetheart.”

“Get lost, both of you,” Sett barked, slamming the door shut with such force that it made Aphelios flinch. He turned, dragging a hand through his crimson hair, trying to regain control. The rage simmering inside him refused to abate, and it showed in the way his ears pinned flat against his skull, a clear testament to his barely-contained fury.

A fury inside the Primarch that refused to subside, bubbling hotter as he turned and took in the sight of Aphelios—still unmoved, still lost in his own abyss. His golden sharp gaze caught every telltale sign: the way the Lunari’s hands lay limp on his thighs, the faint tremor in his shoulders, the hollow stillness in his moonlit eyes. He could feel it— sense it—the weight of self-loathing and the suffocating anxiety that had swallowed the man whole, shutting him off from the world. It wasn’t just irritating; it clawed at Sett’s insides with a mix of frustration and something far more primal.

He should have silenced Lest. He should’ve stopped them before their words dug into Aphelios like poison-tipped daggers. But it was too late now, and the burning need to dominate—to reassert control over this unraveling mess—coursed through Sett’s veins.

With a deliberate and unrelenting stride, the half-beast closed the distance between them. Aphelios stiffened at the sound of heavy footsteps, instinct whispering danger. The Lunari flinched back, but it wasn’t fast enough. Sett’s hand shot out, gripping the collar of his shirt, and with a single, effortless motion, he dragged the body up from the sofa like he weighed nothing at all.

“Snap out of it,” the Primarch growled under his breath, though he doubted the words even registered.

The Lunari barely reacted, his body pliant in the vigorous grasp. The lack of resistance only stoked Settrigh’s irritation further. With no ceremony or gentleness, he threw him onto the four-poster bed, the mattress creaking under the weight. Still, the other one didn’t fight back. He lay there, unmoved, utterly disconnected, as though he were a lifeless doll. That vacant stare—the sight of Aphelios retreating so deeply into himself— irked him to the core . 

Sett loomed over his prey, fists clenched and teeth grinding. His fury simmered just beneath the surface, making the fur on his ears bristle, but beneath that was something deeper—dominion. He wasn’t about to let Aphelios sink further into the dark pit of his own mind.

His gaze flicked acutely to the room around him, landing on Lest’s various “accessories” scattered in plain sight. Sett didn’t know—or care—about the specifics of kink interests of the number one host of his brothel. Most of it looked pointless, but something caught his eye: a pair of sleek, black satin bands hanging from the canopy. It was simple, strong enough for what he needed, and perfect for his plan.

He grabbed the ribbon and turned his attention back to the Lunari, who remained sprawled across the bed, still trapped in his inner turmoil. With deliberate intent, Sett reached for those thin wrists, pulling them upward and positioning them above his head. His movements were steady, unyielding, as he secured Aphelios’ arms to the headboard using the black satin ribbon.

The fabric slid smoothly against Aphelios’ skin, its soft texture a sharp contrast to the firm, unrelenting knots Sett tied. The bindings stretched taut, holding his wrists in place, leaving no room for escape.

It was too easy—no fight, no resistance. For now. And that ease, instead of satisfying him, grated on his nerves. The lack of reaction, of struggle, felt wrong, unnatural. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Frustration simmered beneath his skin, making his pleasure falter, deflate, like a fire struggling against dampened wood.

But it wouldn’t last.

As he tugged the final knot tight, the motion seemed to jolt Aphelios back to the present, if only for a moment. The Lunari’s eyes snapped to the Primarch, a spark of defiance replacing the dull haze.

“The fuck are you doing?” Aphelios hissed, his voice sharp with irritation and confusion. He yanked at the binding over his head, the satin straining but holding firm. When that didn’t work, he resorted to kicking at Sett, his movements wild but uncoordinated.

The Boss didn’t flinch. He didn’t even move, save for the faintest twitch of his ears in response to the commotion. He simply stood there, watching Aphelios expend his energy.

Aureate colored eyes devoured the sight before him, calm yet intense as he observed the Lunari. Aphelios wriggled and kicked against his bindings, the oversized clothes shifting with each movement to reveal flashes of pale, unblemished stomach. It was mesmerizing in its vulnerability.

He had been right. Aphelios was finally fighting—just as Sett had expected. It wasn’t the fight he truly craved, not yet, but it was a start. This would take time; he’d need to be patient. And patience, though not his strong suit, would serve him now.

But when Aphelios managed to kick him with his injured leg and withhold a painful hiss, all patience evaporated. The Primarch growled, low and guttural, before violently shoving the Lunari into the mattress. Like the swift snap of a predator’s jaws around its prey, Settrigh’s right hand wrapped firmly around the Lunari’s throat, holding him still and cutting off his squirming.

His rage wasn’t from the kick itself—it hadn’t hurt him—but from the recklessness. Aphelios had no regard for his own injured body. And that infuriated Sett. Because only he was allowed to break the Lunari, to hurt him.

Thus, the defiance in those moonlit eyes flickered back to life—a sight that brought him a twisted sense of gratification. 

“Two choices, moon boy,” Sett growled, his voice a rumble that filled the room. “I’ll break your leg, or you’ll behave. Either way, I’m burying my cock inside your little ass. The choice is yours. Choose wisely.”

Aphelios didn’t respond, his lips pressed into a thin line, but the shifting and resistance stopped. Sett’s ears twitched, a subtle signal of his heightened awareness. He’d half-expected the Lunari to lash out more, to push him further, but he wasn’t disappointed. The night was young, and this wasn’t the Lunari’s final stand. Not yet.

Because, when he leaned closer, his grip cruelly firm, the Primarch relished in the sight of Aphelios’ defiance fully reigniting, the moonlit gaze glaring at him with fury and resentment. That spark, that fight—it was what he wanted. It was what he needed.

Under the Primarch’s palm, he could feel the rapid breathing gushing through Aphelios’ throat—ragged breaths betraying a tumultuous mix of fear and something else. Sett’s sharp gaze flicked over the Lunari’s face, catching the faint flush creeping across his pale cheeks. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a sign that Aphelios’ body was beginning to betray him. His ears bristled at the savage satisfaction curling in his gut. Good. The conditioning was already taking hold, shattering the Lunari’s inner turmoil and drawing him completely into this moment.

“Oh, you’re not done yet,” Settrigh muttered, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. “And neither am I.”

His dominance wasn’t just about taking control; it was about pulling Aphelios out of the spiral of despair and dragging him, kicking and screaming, back to life. The Primarch wouldn’t stop until the Lunari’s mind was entirely focused on him, on this moment, and not the endless guilt or helplessness that had plagued him before.

The Lunari lay beneath him, chest rising and falling rapidly, flushed and glaring. So now, let the game begin.

Sett’s grip loosened, releasing Aphelios’ delicate throat, though the lingering weight of his dominance didn’t fade, lingering just enough to make the Lunari shiver. Without a word, he leaned to search under the mattress, his movements deliberate, recalling the hint Lest had dropped. His hand emerged clutching a small, lavish silver tin box, its surface gleaming in the dim light.

He flipped it open with ease, retrieving something small before sliding the box back into its hiding place. From his pocket, he retrieved another item as small as the first, though a different color. Straightening, Settrigh held out two pills in his broad palm, presenting them like a challenge.

Aphelios’ eyes widened, darting between the pills. Sett caught the faint flicker of recognition in those moonlit depths as the Lunari’s gaze landed on the white pill.

“You know this one,” he said, holding up the familiar white pill between his fingers, ears perking forward with lazy interest. “No need for introductions. Soraka already did the honors.”

But it was the red pill, resting ominously in his other hand, that truly caught Aphelios’ attention. His features contorted ever so slightly, a mixture of disbelief and apprehension crossing his face.

“And this one?” the Primarch continued, his voice deceptively calm, his attention shifting to the crimson tablet. “But this one? This is the house’s specialty. A powerful aphrodisiac. If you’ve been impressed by the painkillers, congratulations—it’s the same creator. You won’t be disappointed.”

“You’re kidding…” the man on the bed gritted out, his teeth clenched in barely-contained fury.

“Never,” Sett replied casually, his tone utterly unyielding. “And from the look on your face, you understand your situation perfectly.”

“You bastard!” Aphelios spat, twisting and jerking against his bindings. His voice cracked as he strained to break free. “I’m not taking that! You’re no different from the others. To you, I’m just a toy—another thing to use!”

Settrigh’s gaze darkened, his golden eyes burning with quiet fury. “Wrong,” he rumbled, his tone hard as stone, though his grin grew wolfish. “But if you want to play that card, fine. You’re my toy. My little barking moon boy. And I don’t share.”

Carefully placing the pills down on the nightstand, Sett reached for a second satin band.

Aphelios’ struggles renewed the instant the Primarch leaned dangerously in to blindfold him, his legs kicking out wildly. One poorly aimed strike landed against Sett’s side, though it did little more than annoy him.

Ears twitching backwards in frustration, the half-beast growled low in his throat, patience fraying as he caught the Lunari’s leg mid-kick. His grip was firm but not cruel, yet his bitterness was unmistakable. “What’s wrong with you?” he snarled, pressing the Lunari’s leg back down to the mattress, not caring about the swollen ankle anymore. “Hurting yourself again? Haven’t you had enough of that?”

The Lunari didn’t respond, his defiance burning just beneath the surface. Sett leaned closer, his voice a whisper edged in steel. “Keep pushing, and I’ll make sure you learn the hard way, Aphelios.”

The shift in Aphelios’ dark glance was fleeting—just a flicker of emotion—but Sett caught it nonetheless. The Lunari’s defiance burned bright, and while Sett found his thoughtless struggling irritating, it was that raw, genuine hostility in those expressive eyes that truly stoked the fire within him.

In the blink of an eye, he moved. His hands gripped Aphelios firmly, pinning him down against the bed with practiced ease. He ignored the Lunari’s tied wrists and shifted his weight fully, straddling him. The Primarch planted himself heavily on Aphelios’ pelvis, his imposing presence rendering the Lunari utterly immobile.

A savage satisfaction curled in Sett’s gut as he felt the unmistakable stir of life beneath him. Aphelios’ cock was already betraying him, straining against the confines of his oversized clothing. Grounding down with deliberate pressure, it elicited a strangled moan from the man beneath him. The sound sent a thrill coursing through the Primarch’s veins, his blood rushing hot and thick to his own aching need.

Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Sett deftly secured the satin blindfold over Aphelios’ eyes, knotting it firmly at the back of his head. The surge of boiling blood straight to his cock was excruciating, and the fur on his ears bristled with barely-contained desire.

Leaning down, he purred near Aphelios’ ear, his voice a velvet growl. “So, what’s it going to be? The white? Or the red?”

“Fuck you!” Aphelios spat, his voice sharp but wavering just slightly, betraying the tension coiling through his entire body. Even with the blindfold in place, Sett could feel the weight of that piercing gaze, a silent defiance that refused to yield.

The Boss didn’t bother with a response. His silence was mocking, a weapon sharpened by its restraint, as he slowly rose and stepped back from the bed.

The shift in his weight as he moved was almost imperceptible, but it drew a reaction that Sett expected, fueling a dark satisfaction stirring in his chest. A faint, strained whine escaped through Aphelios’ clenched teeth, a sound torn from the Lunari before he could stop it. His body tensed, hips arching involuntarily as though chasing the heat and presence that had just left him.

The sight before him was intoxicating. Aphelios, tied and blindfolded, sprawled against the bed, his breaths shallow and uneven. For a moment, he didn’t move, his body rigid as though he were forcing himself to remain still. But the Primarch noticed the subtle shifts—the way Aphelios’ frame twitched at every muffled sound in the room. The creak of the building, the faint hum of activity from the Velvet Lantern, a door slamming shut in the distance, or the low rumble of a passing car outside. His sharp gaze lingered on the man, noting every quiver, every subtle motion as he fought against himself.

The Lunari’s breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms. His jaw was clenched tight, betraying the strain of holding himself together. His disheveled clothes, tugged out of place during their scuffle, revealed tantalizing glimpses of pale skin. His arms, tied above his head, pulled taut against the restraints, the muscles in his shoulders and forearms flexing with every involuntary twitch.

And then there was the bulge—clear and unmistakable, even beneath the oversized fabric of his borrowed clothes. It didn’t waver, a blatant contradiction to the man’s struggles and curses.

Standing there, Settrigh drank in the sight. His golden eyes narrowed, his lips curling into a wolfish grin. Without a word, he pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat, his movements unhurried and deliberate. And he let the silence stretch as he watched the flush creeping up Aphelios’ neck deepened. The anger and the shame to be turned on.

From his seat, the Primarch’s gaze roamed freely, taking in every detail of Aphelios as he lay there, unraveling piece by piece. The blindfold heightened every one of the Lunari’s reactions. The other’s head tilted slightly toward even the faintest sound, his lips parting with shallow gasps. His body shuddered at intervals, a raw vulnerability on full display, though the defiance in his clenched fists still simmered just beneath the surface. Each moment without touch became its own form of torment, and Sett reveled in the way the Lunari's body betrayed him with every twitch and gasp.

Interesting. Sett’s own body reacted, his cock pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. He felt it throbbing, thick and impatient, demanding release. Yet, he ignored it, forcing himself to remain composed. This wasn’t just about taking—it was about how to play the long game, and the reactions spilling from Aphelios were proof that patience could yield exquisite results. About making him feel his power, even in stillness.

The Primarch leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his hands resting idly crossed against his chest. His gaze never wavered, drinking in the sight of Aphelios’ trembling frame, the faint sheen of sweat on his flushed skin, the way his chest heaved as he struggled to process the torment of silence.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He simply watched .

And slowly, inexorably, the tension in the room began to shift, tightening like a coiled spring.

But Settrigh wasn’t done. Forcibly dragging his prey from the depths of torment was only the beginning. Satisfaction was a far-off prize, and until he claimed it, there would be no respite for either of them. Aphelios belonged to him—body and soul—and it was time to take this game to the next level. If the Lunari refused to face the truth of his own desires, then Sett would make his body speak for him.

His hand moved to the nightstand, fingers curling around one of the pills he had placed there earlier, before returning to the figure tied on the bed. The reaction was immediate. The blindfolded tensed, his body jerking against the restraints in a futile attempt to escape. Sett caught the subtle hitch in his breathing, the flicker of panic betrayed by his trembling frame.

Without hesitation, the Primarch leaned in, his grip firm as he seized the delicate jaw before him. The force of his touch left no room for argument. Though the blindfold obscured the piercing glare Sett knew lay beneath, he could still feel the defiance radiating from the Aphelios’ tensed form.

"Open," he commanded, his deep voice laced with authority.

Aphelios clenched his teeth, shaking his head in opposition. His breath came in ragged bursts, his rigid body flinching beneath Sett’s iron grip. The resistance only fueled the beast within the Primarch, who let out a low growl.

"Don't test me, moon boy," Sett warned.

Using his thumb, he applied just enough pressure to pry the other’s mouth open. The Lunari’s muffled protests were met with unwavering resolve, each vibration of defiance felt against the intrusive hand. Sett wasted no time, deftly slipping the pill beneath his victim’s tongue with an almost surgical precision. Aphelios attempted to spit it out, but his jaw was clamped shut, by a firm grip that left no room for rebellion and forced compliance.

“Swallow,” Settrigh ordered, his golden eyes burning with intensity. “Don’t even think about spilling it.”

For a moment, it seemed defiance might win out, but instinct prevailed. With palpable reluctance, Aphelios complied, throat working hard to swallow the pill. The subtle bob of his Adam’s apple didn’t go unnoticed.

With a satisfied smirk, Sett eased his grip and leaned back in the chair, his imposing frame exuding a casualness that belied the charged atmosphere. Yet his sharp gaze never left the figure on the bed—breathless, disheveled, and bound, a striking portrait of resistance.

Sett’s pulse thundered in his ears, each beat a drum fueling his insatiable hunger. His cock strained against his pants, a persistent ache demanding release, and the sight before him only worsened the torment. Aphelios lay bound, disheveled, and blindfolded, his breaths shallow and uneven. The Lunari had no idea what pill he’d been given, and that ignorance wouldn’t only make his sense run wild—Settrigh’s imagination too.

He leaned forward slightly, every muscle taut with anticipation, envisioning the moment when the unwanted Aphelios’ desire would snap his mind. Sett knew precisely what he had administered, and he expected the reaction to be nothing short of exquisite. His claws flexed against the arms of the chair as he imagined pressing the smaller man beneath him, driving his cock so deep into that trembling body that Aphelios would feel him for days—feel only him.

His gaze drifted to those soft, pale lips, now parted slightly as Aphelios caught his breath. The thought of them wrapped around his girth, struggling to take him in, sent a rush of heat straight to his core. How would they feel, wet and warm, trembling with reluctance yet betraying pleasure? The Primarch’s hand twitched, resisting the urge to grab the back of the other’s head and guide him until his throat accommodated every inch.

The raw need clawed at his insides, an overwhelming desire to claim, to conquer, to mark the Lunari in every way possible. It wasn’t just about release; it was about possession—making sure that Aphelios’ body would never forget the feel of him. Sett’s lips curled into a feral smirk as he allowed the fantasies to swirl, each one more vivid than the last.

But beneath the lust, a darker satisfaction lingered. Aphelios didn’t know, couldn’t know, that what coursed through him now wasn’t what he feared. It was a game Sett controlled entirely, and that power only heightened his arousal. He shifted in his chair, the friction against his pants nearly maddening, yet he didn’t move closer—didn’t touch. For now, he would watch and wait, savoring every trembling reaction from the man who didn’t yet realize he was utterly his.

It wasn’t just desire—it was obsession. His mind constantly circled back to the Lunari, his thoughts consumed by every detail. The way light seemed to cling to that pale skin, the defiant arch of his body even in submission, and those eyes—always those eyes—cutting through him like a blade, even when hidden behind a black satin band. No one had ever gotten under his skin like this.

The Lunari wasn’t just another conquest. He was an addiction and the beast in Sett wanted more—needed more until the Lunari was utterly, irrevocably his.

Time ticked by in silence, the tension in the room palpable. The Primarch’s gaze roamed over Aphelios’ trembling form, noting every involuntary reaction. When the Lunari shifted his legs, crossing them tightly as though to hide the growing evidence of his arousal, Sett smirked. The sight of moon boy’s desperation—his futile attempts to suppress the very responses betraying him—was a feast for the beast.

Crimson ears perked sharply toward the canopy bed.

Then it happened—a raw and unguarded moan broke through the quiet. Muffled, stifled, but unmistakable. Aphelios’ hips twitched, a subtle yet damning movement, as if instinctively seeking friction.

The thin thread of Settrigh’s restraint snapped and ignited like a wildfire.

The chair’s legs scraped against the parquet as he stood abruptly. Despite his urgency, he knew better than to destroy Aphelios’ clothing outright. His claws hovered near the loose fabric of the Lunari’s pants, and with surprising dexterity, he stripped away his sneakers, tossing them carelessly aside. He worked the laces on the pants loose with a combination of brute strength and focus, peeling them off inch by inch. The body squirmed, caught between avoidance and pursuit. The effort was agonizingly slow for Sett, but the sight of pale, bare legs revealed beneath the fabric drove his need to unbearable heights.

He wanted to sink his canines deep into the flesh, marking the body as his own. 

But it wasn’t just those porcelaine legs that made an exquisite sight. Aphelios' gray underwear, though oversized, did nothing to conceal his arousal. The outline of his hard cock was unmistakable beneath the fabric, a dark patch of precome staining it wet.

Settrigh clicked his tongue. Despite the Lunari’s stubborn unwillingness to yield to his twisted desires—the defiance evident in his clenched jaw and his refusal to make another sound in the Primarch’s presence—his body betrayed him once more with its honest compliance.

The underwear was stripped away swiftly, leaving Aphelios exposed and vulnerable. His cock twitched against the dark trail of hair on his pale skin, its glistening crown fully revealed. Sett loomed over him, his massive form casting a shadow that seemed to swallow the smaller man whole.

“You think your silence will protect you, moon boy? You don’t have control here, not anymore.” He smirked, letting the words gand in the air, heavy with his dominance.

With a steely, cold voice, Aphelios whispered, “You’re nothing but a beast.” His words barely audible, laced with bitterness, but his body betraying him, remained rigid beneath the Primarch’s presence.

Settrigh’s lips curled into a mocking smile as he heard Aphelios’ words, so cold and brittle. A beast , he called him. It was a futile attempt to salvage the last remnants of pride, a challenge with no teeth. Sett leaned in, his breath hot against the other’s ear as he whispered, “You’re not telling me to stop. You're not begging. You’re just pretending.”

He chuckled darkly, knowing the truth before Aphelios did. The Lunari’s silence wasn’t a plea for mercy—it was simply a mask, a shield that couldn’t hide what was undeniable. Sett would never let him go. He was the Boss, and the world bent to his will.

A surge of possessiveness flooded him. Now, he thought, now I want to hear you scream.

There was no hesitation. With a firm grip, the Primarch pushed pale thighs back until they nearly touched a trembling chest, exposing every vulnerable inch. The growl rumbling in his throat was low, primal, as his gaze lingered on the reddened rim of the Lunari’s entrance—a lingering mark of his earlier conquest. It was still slightly swollen, a vivid reminder of the last time he'd claimed him.

The sight sent a fresh jolt of heat straight to his groin, his cock straining painfully against the confines of his pants. Holding the smaller body effortlessly in place, his free hand moved with rough intent, sliding between the soft curve of flushed cheeks. A calloused finger pressed firmly against the sensitive entrance, teasing the tender flesh, testing its pliancy. Aphelios tensed but neither spoke nor tried to escape his predicament.

“Relax,” the growl came low and mocking, the edges of his words sharp as claws raking across tender skin. The command was as futile as it was cruel—there was no chance of compliance, and he knew it.

The Lunari’s breath hitched, his muscles tightening instinctively as the intrusion began. His body arched slightly, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, but resistance was meaningless. The first finger pressed inside Aphelios’ hole, forcing its way past the tight ring of muscle, and the heat that greeted it made a deep rumble of satisfaction rise in his throat. Sett reveled in the way the slick, pulsing walls clenched around him, a delicious mixture of defiance and unwilling surrender.

Pinned helplessly beneath him, wrists bound above his head and blindfold covering those haunting eyes, Aphelios was utterly exposed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath ragged as his lips parted in shallow gasps. The flush creeping across his pale skin intensified, trailing from his neck to his cheeks, and his cock twitched visibly, betraying his body’s unwilling reaction to the relentless touch.

The Primarch didn’t hold back, plunging deeper with an almost punishing force as he added a second finger. He worked them in tandem, twisting and stretching, feeling every inch of resistance give way to his demands. The way Aphelios’ body squirmed beneath him—tense one moment, quivering the next—was a sight he couldn’t tear his gaze from. The glistening tip of the smaller man’s cock bobbed with each involuntary jolt, the flush deepening as his breathing grew uneven.

Sett’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk. “Good. Your body is so eager that it wants more,” he rumbled, his fingers curling with purpose, pressing against a sensitive spot deep inside. The reaction was immediate—a startled gasp broke free from the man beneath him, unbidden and raw.

“Shut up,” Aphelios snapped, his voice tight, trembling with both anger and something he refused to name. His defiance was sharp, but it rang hollow, the weight of his breathing betraying his struggle to hold onto the last shreds of control.

The Primarch tsked, shaking his head mockingly as his fingers twisted again, pulling another involuntary reaction from the Lunari. “Oh, you think you can talk back to me now?” His grin widened, dripping with dark amusement. “You’re mistaken if you think that changes anything. I’m the Boss, and right now, you’re nothing but my fuck toy. And maybe—” he paused, letting his words settle as his thumb brushed teasingly over the stretched rim, “—maybe I’m just enjoying myself. Because I can.”

The weight of his admission lingered, laced with a low chuckle. But even as the taunts left his lips, a thread of honesty settled in his chest. Settrigh could’ve threatened him, dangled Alune’s rescue like the barrel of a gun against his temple but the thought soured in his mind almost immediately. He had already promised to help. For all his cruelty, going back on his word wasn’t an option. His principles, warped as they might seem to others, were unshakable.

Family. The word rang in his mind like an unspoken vow. He would’ve torn the world apart for his mother, and even for a stranger, the idea of exploiting that bond struck too close to home. No, he didn’t need to threaten Aphelios to fuck him. The Lunari’s body was already betraying him, trembling with anticipation no matter how much his pride fought against it.

Sett's smirk deepened as he leaned closer, his breath ghosting against Aphelios’ ear. “You’re mine, and you’re going to give me everything I want.”

Aphelios had no chance to retort anything, his lips parting in a sharp inhale as the Primarch withdrew his fingers, leaving him empty and clenching involuntarily around nothing. His breathing quickened, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that betrayed both tension and anticipation.

Shifting back, Settrigh’s movements were deliberate, as he freed himself from the confines of his pants. His cock sprang forth, flushed a deep, angry red, veins snaking along its thick length. It throbbed, pulsing with the half-satisfying sensation of air brushing against its taut, overheated skin. It wasn’t enough. The beast inside him growled for more, for the wet, yielding heat he knew was waiting for him.

Aphelios was sprawled on Lest’s luxurious canopy bed, his wrists bound tightly above his head, the blindfold leaving him completely vulnerable to every touch and sensation. It heightened the Primarch’s arousal, and his ears twitched in response, every nerve alight with need. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking slowly as he positioned himself, savoring the sight laid bare before him. The growl that escaped his lips carried the raw edge of hunger, a primal sound that reverberated deep in his chest.

Sett spread the smaller man’s legs, gripping his thighs firmly. He hoisted one leg, the smooth curve of it resting on his broad shoulder, while his other hand cradled the opposing thigh, keeping him in place. The Lunari tensed beneath him, his body taut and trembling, beneath the fabric of his shirt. His golden eyes roamed hungrily over him, drinking in every detail—the way his lips parted with each uneven breath, the glisten of sweat tracing the lines of his body, and the unmistakable arousal that throbbed between his legs, visible even now.

The heat radiating from the offering was maddening, an unspoken invitation Sett couldn’t resist. His own cock twitched, aching for release, and his control frayed with every passing second. The Primarch leaned forward, his chest brushing against Aphelios’ thigh as he positioned himself at the Lunari’s entrance, the tip of his cock pressing insistently against the reddened rim, still tender and marked from earlier.

He exhaled a low growl, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “You’re ready for me,” he murmured, more to himself than to the bound man beneath him. With no more time to lose, he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, claiming motion. The hot grip of Aphelios’ body clamped down around him, and Settrigh’s breath hitched, a guttural moan tearing from his throat.

The overwhelming sensation swallowed him whole, threatening to drown him in the all-consuming need to move, to claim, to utterly ruin. The Primarch’s fingers tightened on Aphelios’ thigh, the solid hold sure to leave marks, as he drew back just enough to slam in again, his restraint splintering under the weight of his desire.

This was it—the tightness, the molten heat, the sheer ecstasy of forcing pliant muscles to yield. This was where his cock belonged. A perfect fit. It felt like he was claiming a place made solely for him, and he reveled in the raw, unrestrained pleasure of it.

The brutal rhythm didn’t falter; the Primarch’s hips snapped forward with a force that left no room for mercy. Each relentless thrust carved deeper, tearing broken gasps and shuddering moans from the blindfolded figure writhing beneath him. Bound wrists strained futilely against the silken black ties, the Lunari’s lips parting as he fought to catch his breath, his chest rising and falling erratically.

But his body… oh, his body told the truth in ways he couldn’t. Pearly streams of precum—a silent confession of just how thoroughly Aphelios was being undone—spilled onto the delicate curve of his stomach, leaving a glistening trail that only served to fuel the beast pummeling into him.

The rhythmic, obscene sound of flesh colliding filled the room, a symphony of dominance and surrender. The air, thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingled with the faint, exotic spice and the floral undertones Sett couldn’t get out of his head. It stirred something primal in his sensitive Vastayan senses, making his cock ache harder with each brutal thrust.

This wasn’t just fucking. This was raw, unrelenting domination, guided by instincts the Primarch couldn’t, and wouldn’t, suppress. His vastaya blood sang with the need to ravish. Yet something new wormed its way into his thoughts—a realization that the Lunari beneath him, so vulnerable yet unyielding, could never bore him. Even in this state, Aphelios fought, clawing to maintain his resistance. Sett’s gut told him that once the man accepted his body’s truths, he’d never fully submit. He’d push back in ways that would make this kind of intensity even more exhilarating.

Sett grunted, his claws tightening their grip on Aphelios’ trembling thighs, leaving faint indentations in the sweat-slicked skin. If he’d ever had a rule about not fucking the same person twice, Aphelios was already the exception. And why not? He was the Boss. He made the rules—and broke them when it suited him.

Under the relentless tunneling of his cock, Aphelios was unraveling. The blindfold did nothing to hide the way his chest rose and fell in sharp gasps, his lips parting to release ragged moans he tried so hard to suppress. The Primarch didn’t need to see the Lunari’s moonlit eyes to feel their intensity; he could imagine them boring into him, full of fury and humiliation, even as the man’s body betrayed every ounce of resistance he tried to cling to.

“I hate you,” Aphelios bit out, his voice trembling with raw, unsuppressed emotion. The words cracked like a whip, defiance laced with desperation.

The half-beast’s lips twisted into a cruel smirk, his pace unyielding. “Good,” he rumbled, his voice thick with mockery and desire. “Hate me. Focus all that hate on me. Only me.” He punctuated the words with a sexthirsty thrust that forced a strangled cry from the smaller man.

Off was the self-loathing. Gone was the guilt. All that remained was want—raw, genuine, insatiable. The cruel fate of his unfortunate life momentarily faded, as if someone had pressed a reset button. Sett could see it, feel it, taste it in every shudder of the Lunari’s body beneath him. Aphelios wasn’t just a broken being, even if Sett was breaking him piece by piece right now. He was more. Better.

“I hate you,” the words spilled from those pale lips again, softer this time, more a breathless whimper than a declaration. His voice wavered, cracking under the weight of his own conflicted desire.

Without drawing blood, Settrigh’s claws dug into the man’s hips, his palms sliding against the slick sweat of pale, trembling skin. He growled low in his throat, leaning forward to growl near the Lunari’s ear. “That’s right. Hate me, Aphelios. Hate me as much as you need to.”

But even as the words left his lips, the event unfolding in Lest’s den of pleasure told an entirely different story. Each thrust forced the Lunari to arch into him, his back bowing off the bed, every muscle taut as his body chased after its own inevitable release. His untouched cock, flushed and throbbing, dripped precum onto his stomach, the slick fluid pooling in his navel. The Lunari’s legs trembled against Sett’s grip, his every movement betraying the desperation he refused to voice.

The Primarch snarled, his own cock twitching violently within the tight heat, and leaned further into the man beneath him. He could feel it now—the moment Aphelios would break, the line between resistance and surrender dissolving completely under the relentless need driving them both.

As if his cock were meant to be buried in this tight, welcoming ass. Settrigh was overwhelmed—the tight heat gripping him, the desperate, breathy sounds spilling from Aphelios’ lips, and the way the Lunari’s body arched and writhed beneath him. It was too much, a sensory overload that ignited his sexual urge. With a guttural roar, his release slammed into him with ferocious intensity, shattering his composure. He drove himself deep one final time, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside, the rush leaving his toned tights trembling.

The echo of I hate you lingered in his mind, shadowed by a dark undertone, but his orgasm surged too fiercely to let him linger on anything else. For a moment, everything else dissolved into raw sensation, as he kept pushing his come deeper to fill his claim.

To the Primarch’s dark satisfaction, Aphelios followed just a few heartbeats later. The Lunari’s entire body stiffened, a sharp, unrestrained cry tearing from his throat as his climax overtook him. His release spilled in hot, erratic pulses, splattering across his stomach and even to his jaw, staining his shirt in a mess of desire. His breath hitched and caught in his chest, each pulse of pleasure wracking him until he was left trembling, his body quivering with the force of it. As Sett pulled out, the tension in him unraveled, leaving him breathless and raw, a shuddering aftermath of the overwhelming release.

Watching as his seed dripped slowly from the other man’s trembling body, Sett let Aphelios’ legs fall unceremoniously onto the mattress, the satisfaction of dominance still humming through him. The blindfold had shifted slightly, just enough to reveal one glimmering, moonlit eye beneath the satin. The look in it was raw, caught between confusion and disbelief, and the Primarch’s smirk widened, sharp and taunting. He tucked himself back into his pants with a deliberate, mocking slowness, his movements smooth and confident, ears flicking in a brief but telling display of satisfaction.

Reaching for the nightstand, he grasped the remaining pill and held it up between his fingers, making sure Aphelios saw it clearly.

The Lunari’s chest heaved as he blinked, his gaze fixed on the pill with a dawning realization that flickered across his face, quickly turning to shock. His mouth parted, but no words came as he stared, disbelief spreading like wildfire in his wide, moonlit eyes.

“You thought I gave you the red one, didn’t you?” The Boss’ voice dripped with amusement, heavy with the satisfaction of the moment. The sight was exquisite, and the splattered come on his jaw made it even more indecent. “But no,” he continued, his tone thick with triumph. “That wasn’t the aphrodisiac, Aphelios.”

He leaned in close, his breath warm against the Lunari’s ear, his voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper. “That was the healing pill—for that stupid swollen ankle of yours. Guess your reactions were real after all.”

The shock on Aphelios' face was unmistakable, his body trembling slightly as the weight of the revelation sank in. The Primarch could feel the rush of power as the Lunari’s stunned expression burned itself into his mind. He reveled in it, savoring the moment like a drink that lingered on his tongue.