❝I respectfully decline, alphas. ❞
꧁━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━꧂
➽ 𝘞𝘏𝘌𝘙𝘌 you're a maid, trying to live your life in peace, but you end up catching the attention of the notorious alphas.
ᴊᴊᴋᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜsﾒғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
↝ ℜ𝔶𝔬𝔪𝔢�...
It's the first thing you notice—how it presses against your skin, wraps around your lungs, sinks into your bones. Heavy with something syrupy, something rich, something dangerous.
You blink.
The room is bathed in low, golden light, flickering shadows stretching across the floor. The walls feel closer, the space warmer, the air heavier.
The chair beneath you is impossibly soft. Plush velvet cradles your body, the fabric catching on the heat of your skin. You shift, but the movement only makes you more aware of the way your body feels—hot, restless, aching.
Something is wrong.
Something is right.
You swallow hard, and the sound is deafening in the silence.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. A lazy, deliberate stride, each step dragging the moment out, stretching the anticipation thin until it's tangible.
Then you see them.
Satoru steps into the light first, the glow catching the sharp angles of his face, the soft, knowing curve of his lips. His eyes flicker with something dark, something ravenous, his pupils wide, swallowing the pale, icy blue whole.
Then Suguru. Solid. Steady. A weight in the air, in your chest, in your stomach. His gaze is slow, dark, and assessing. Watching you the way a wolf watches prey.
You shudder, shrinking in the chair beneath you.
Satoru's eyes flicker to yours, his smile sharpening at the edges.
Suguru hums, stepping closer, his scent growing stronger, richer, curling in the air between you.
Your thighs press together.
Satoru notices and grins. "Oh," he murmurs, low and pleased, "that's cute."
Suguru is behind you before you even register the movement.
Large, warm hands settle on your shoulders, firm, grounding, his thumbs pressing slowly, measured circles into your skin.
You stiffen.
"You've been fighting this for a long time, haven't you?" His voice is smooth, deep—like the roll of thunder before a storm.
Satoru clicks his tongue, kneeling in front of you, elbows braced on the arms of your chair, caging you in. His breath is warm against your skin, his scent thick and teasing, curling inside you, making you feel—
No. No, this isn't right.
You shake your head, but it feels slow, delayed, like moving through honey. "I don't—"
