Drous | THE SOVEREIGNS

‎The dimly lit back room of the underground club smelled of cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. Drous sat at the head of a polished mahogany table, the flicker of a single candle casting sharp shadows across his sharply dressed silhouette. Around him were the other key players of his organization, voices low but tense—his trusted circle.

‎Damian leaned forward, dark eyes gleaming with something almost dangerous. “The shipment from Marseille got held up. Could be a setup.”

‎Drous's lips curled into a faint smile, a predator’s smile. “Then we rearrange the board. They think they can cut us out? Let them learn why I don’t lose.” ‎ ‎A haze of cigar smoke drifted beneath the antique chandelier, and the glow from low-set sconces bathed the mafia council in flickering gold. The table was long. The stakes were longer. Around it, men talked numbers—shipping lanes, bribes, bodies gone cold.

‎Drous Nkoir sat at the head, statuesque, fingers curled around a glass of aged scotch he hadn’t sipped in ten minutes. His mind was somewhere else. Everyone knew it.

‎Then the door creaked open.

‎Sin didn’t knock. He never did. ‎ ‎“Am I late?” he drawled, all grin and menace as he strolled in, coat draped over one shoulder, shirt unbuttoned just enough to say I don’t care if I bleed tonight.

‎Drous didn’t look up. Didn’t need to.

‎Sin tossed his coat onto a nearby chair and slid into the seat beside him. “So. What’s the damage? Who pissed off the king this time?”

‎No answer. ‎ ‎Sin’s eyes flicked to the untouched scotch. His grin widened.

‎“Ohh,” he murmured, leaning in. “She’s back in your head, isn’t she?”

‎Drous said nothing. His thumb ghosted over the rim of his glass. ‎ ‎“Still pretending you’re not in love?” ‎ ‎The voice came from his right. ‎ ‎Sin.

‎Drous didn’t even flinch.

‎Sin lounged in his chair like a prince of bad ideas, boots propped on the polished table, suit just unbuttoned enough to show he hadn’t come here to behave.

‎Drous sipped his whiskey, unimpressed.

‎Sin grinned. “Come on. You gonna lie to me now? After everything?” ‎ ‎"Is she still sketching you like you're a myth?" Sin grinned, voice velvet and venom. "God, the way you looked at her in that museum—like you'd found something holy. A bit late for redemption, isn't it?" ‎ ‎Drous voice was soft. Deadly. "Careful." ‎ ‎Sin raised both hands, mock-innocent. "Relax, lover boy. Just wondering how long it takes before you hang her in a frame next to your guns."

‎“I’m not pretending,” Drous said, low.

‎“So you do want to ruin her.” Sin’s laugh was sharp. “At least admit she’s the reason you’ve been turning your murder palace into a goddamn spa. You’ve got roses in the halls, for fuck’s sake.” ‎ ‎Drous' phone buzzed on the table. Just once.

‎He picked it up. ‎ ‎One message from his investigator: ‎ ‎He’s cheating. Months now. Got everything—video, audio, screen caps. Sending package. ‎ ‎The silence stretched. Drous stared at the screen like it was scripture.

‎That smile—cold and slow—spread across his lips like something wicked had just bloomed.

‎Sin saw it instantly. "Let me guess. Lover boy broke her heart?"

‎Drous's voice was quiet, but lethal. "He was never hers to begin with."

‎"Mm." Sin licked his teeth, watching his friend carefully now. "So what's the plan? Send her the truth? Let her crumble and crawl into your arms?"

‎Drous's eyes were still fixed on the screen. "It's not about the fall."

‎"No?" Sin asked, leaning in, grinning like a devil who knew exactly what strings were being pulled.

‎Drous didn’t answer. Just opened the file. The photos hit first. Then the audio. The texts. The grainy hotel footage with a timestamp that told the full story.

‎He scrolled in silence.

‎Sin watched him, something sharper beneath his grin now. ‎ ‎“You’re going to show her,” he said. ‎ ‎Drous's knuckles flexed. “Of course.”

‎“Why? To watch her break?” ‎ ‎Drous’s voice was quiet. “It’s the key to breaking her free.”

‎Sin’s brows lifted.

‎“She doesn’t see it,” Drous went on, words slow, deliberate. “She’s still painting her world in pastels. Still thinks she’s safe in lies. But when she sees this... she’ll understand what safety never was.” ‎ ‎Sin gave a low whistle. “Christ. You’re not just trying to claim her. You’re trying to remake her.” ‎ ‎“She needs to stop being soft,” Drous said. “And I’m done waiting.”

‎Sin raised his glass, tilting it toward him. “So what are you gonna do? Wrap the truth in ribbon and watch her bleed pretty?” ‎ ‎“You really think showing her this will save her?”

‎“She’s been living in delusion. Soft. Blind. She thinks she’s safe in what hurts her most.” Drous's fingers tightened around the phone. “She doesn’t need saving. She needs to see. All of it.”

‎“And you think you’re the truth?” Sin asked, tone sharpening.

‎*“I am,”* Drous said simply. ‎ ‎Sin stared at him, quiet for once. Then: “You’re not just obsessed. You’re possessed.”

‎“She’ll hate me for it.”

‎“Maybe. But hate’s still intimacy. Still heat. Still real.” ‎ ‎Drous stood, brushing his sleeve smooth.

‎Sin's brow lifted. "You're serious." ‎ ‎Drous stood, sliding his phone into his coat pocket like a weapon. "She's chained to the wrong person. He kept her soft. He lied with every kiss. She doesn't need comfort. She deserves truth." ‎ ‎"You mean she deserves you," Sin said, voice low. "Even if it destroys her first."

‎Drous mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Especially if it does." ‎ ‎“I’m going to set the lie on fire,” he said coldly. “Then offer her the ashes." ‎ ‎"And you're gonna hand her the hammer, huh?" Sin laughed, but there was a dark glint of respect in his tone. "And then what? Kiss the cracks? Or fuck her until she forgets who hurt her first?"

Drous’s smile didn't reach his eyes. "Does it matter?"

‎Sin watched him go, voice softer now—almost admiring. ‎ ‎"Tell her I said hi," he called. "And that I envy the ruin you're about to make."

‎Drous paused at the door, shadowed in the golden light from the hallway. ‎ ‎"Ruin," he echoed. "No." ‎ ‎Then, quieter —like a vow only the devils could hear. ‎ ‎"I'm going to rebuild her." ‎ ‎Sin grinned, but his eyes were thoughtful now. “That girl has no idea what kind of god just chose her.”

‎"She won't shatter," Drous said. "She'll sharpen." ‎ ‎Sin tilted his glass in a lazy salute. "You sure you're not projecting?"

‎Drous didn't dignify that with an answer.

‎Instead, he paused at the threshold, shadows clinging to the edges of his tailored frame. ‎ ‎Sin raised a brow. "Off to kiss her tears or twist the knife?"

‎Drous’s reply was a whisper, but it hit like a match dropped in gasoline. ‎ ‎"Both." ‎ ‎Drous paused at the doorway. No parting words. Just a flicker of intent in his eyes, deep and unholy. ‎ ‎Sin let out a slow, breathy chuckle, equal parts impressed and horrified. "You know, for a man who swore he'd never love again, you're doing a damn good job of orchestrating a psychotic fairytale." ‎ ‎Sin chuckled. “Give her my regards,” he called softly. “Or don’t. She’ll know me by the trouble in your hands.”

Drous vanished into the dark. ‎ ‎And Sin leaned back in his chair, whistling an old funeral tune.

‎ ________________________________________

The soft hum of classical piano spilled from the hallway speakers as Drous Nkoir stood in front of the towering glass windows of his countryside estate, a glass of deep red wine swirling lazily between his fingers. Behind him, the occasional snap from the fireplace filled the air—a quiet, luxurious kind of menace.

‎But his mind wasn’t here.

‎It was still back at the museum. ‎

Where you stood beneath a skylight, sketchbook clutched to your chest, looking too perfect to be real. So unaware of how tightly the trap had already closed around you. ‎

This wasn’t the first time he’d taken you. But it was the first time he hadn’t bothered with chains or threats. No sedatives. No blindfolds. This time, he’d kidnapped you with elegance—swept you away in a black car, brought you to one of his quieter estates far from the city’s rot. Not a dungeon. Not a cell. A gilded cage lined in silk, floor-length curtains, and fresh roses in every room. ‎

He wanted you soft. He wanted you comfortable. ‎ He wanted you breakable.

Drous stood with his back to the fire now, framed in flickering amber light. The shadows played over the sharp cut of his cheekbones, his perfectly tailored suit, the stillness of a man who’d mastered the art of violence—and made it look like seduction.

In his hand, your sketchbook. ‎ He flipped to a page—your latest work—and dragged his thumb across a charcoal stroke. Smudging you. Marking you. It was messy, raw, unfiltered. Like you. ‎ He smiled, just barely. ‎ “You never sign them,” he murmured to no one. “Like you’re ashamed of being seen.”

‎Behind him, you sat on the cream velvet settee—silent. The room pressed in on you: all velvet, roses, gold. No locks on the doors. No visible threats. But you didn’t need them. ‎ You already knew what you were: taken. ‎ And the worst part? ‎ It didn’t feel like fear anymore. ‎ Drous turned slowly, the kind of deliberate, glacial turn that said he had all the time in the world to ruin you.

And he was watching you like a man watches his favorite sin—slowly, hungrily, knowing he’s already claimed it.

You forced yourself to speak. “Why am I here?”

‎His gaze pinned you. "I brought you somewhere clean. Somewhere quiet. Away from the lies you were too soft to see.” ‎ He took a slow sip of wine, savoring it, then set the glass down with surgical elegance. ‎

Crossed the room. ‎

The scent of him hit you first—smoke, spice, danger wrapped in expensive cologne. He stopped just in front of you, towering, composed. Watching. You felt it in your bones—the weight of being chosen, not by kindness, but by obsession. ‎

He knelt. ‎ Not like a man submitting. Like a man about to tear something open. ‎ “I watched you in that museum,” he said, voice low, rich, unhurried. “So soft. So unaware. Your lips parted... your eyes wide. All that innocence just waiting to be stolen.”

‎ His fingers brushed the edge of your skirt—barely a touch. Just enough to make your breath stutter. ‎ “Shame I had to drag you out like a stolen painting,” he continued, a soft laugh curling under his breath. “But then again... I always take what doesn’t belong to me. And ruin it until it begs to stay.”

‎You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve screamed. ‎

But you held his gaze. But your fingers tightened in your lap instead. And your eyes didn’t leave his.

‎Drous’s gaze darkened, pleased. ‎

He reached for the folder on the table beside you and dropped it into your lap with a dull, deliberate thud. ‎

You opened it.

‎Photos. Screenshots. Videos. ‎ Your boyfriend—laughing. Kissing. Undressing someone else. Over and over again.

‎Drous watched the way your hands trembled. But your breath stayed even. Your heart didn’t shatter. It calcified.

‎“Why are you showing me this?” you whispered, throat dry, voice like cracked porcelain.

‎ Drous studied you like a portrait he was about to repaint in blood and silk. ‎ He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his hand slid up your thigh—unhurried, possessive—stopping just above your knee. His other hand caught your chin, lifting your face back to him. ‎

His voice was low, smooth, lethal. ‎ “He’s been fucking her for months.”

The words hit like glass against skin—sharp, merciless. ‎ “He used you,” he said, gaze burning through you. “Kept you soft. Kept you blind. You were the perfect lie wrapped in good intentions.”

His mouth brushed close to your ear, lips not quite touching. ‎ “And now,” he breathed, “I’m going to teach you what it means to be ruined the right way.” ‎ Your breath hitched. ‎ But your eyes didn’t look away. ‎ They were burning now—with grief, with rage, with something that looked dangerously close to hunger. ‎

Drous smiled like a man watching a rose bloom with thorns. ‎ His breath tickled your skin. His lips didn’t touch. Not yet. But you felt the promise in the space between. ‎

Then, sharper—“Look at me.”

His thumb pressed beneath your chin. Not rough, but commanding. Enough to make you obey before you realized you were doing it. ‎ Your gaze snapped up, met his—and held. ‎

“Now,” he murmured, voice dark and smooth like the wine he drank, “I’m going to teach you what it means to be ruined the right way.” ‎ Your breath caught in your throat. ‎ But your eyes—your eyes were burning. With grief. With rage. With something new. Something dangerous. ‎

Drous smiled like a man who’d just broken the lock on something sacred. ‎ “Paint something with that rage,” he said, voice slipping into something darker. “Rip the softness from your soul and make it jagged. I want to see what you become when no one dares call you delicate again.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t release your thigh. ‎ His voice dropped lower. Velvet and vice. ‎ “Say the word,” he whispered, thumb brushing your lips. “And I’ll break every rule I made for you.”