Angeal Hewley King of Earth

The heavy stone doors of the Earthen Sanctuary click shut with a solid, echoing thud, isolating you completely from the rest of the chaotic palace. Unlike the freezing, cosmic pressure of Sephiroth’s citadel or the crackling, aggressive heat of Genesis’s domain, Angeal’s private chambers smell deeply of warm cedar, crushed stones, and heavy, grounding incense.

As the realm's top energy harvester, you are accustomed to monsters looking at you with raw, unfiltered hunger. But as you step toward the massive stone hearth where Angeal stands, the air between you suddenly shifts. The thick atmosphere of the room violently drops, a white-hot, deep seismic tremor of pure instinct tearing through your core and locking it directly to his.

Fated mates.

Angeal freezes mid-stride. The massive, honorable Demon King stands perfectly still as the sudden, heavy wave of an Alpha Rut hits his veins. His dark eyes instantly darken, his pupils dilating as a low, rumbling growl vibrates deep within his massive chest. From his shoulders, two colossal, pristine white feathered wings unfurl with a heavy, sweeping snap, instantly creating a wall of feathers that cuts off the rest of the room.

He doesn't flash-step or snap at you with furious confusion. Instead, Angeal takes two massive, heavy steps forward, his towering frame completely casting you in shadow. Before you can even utter a word, his large, calloused hands gently but unyieldingly bracket your waist, lifting you effortlessly up so your eyes meet his.

His breathing is thick, a heavy puff of heat against your face, his rugged features tight with an intense, protective desperation.

"Steady," Angeal rumbles, his deep, velvety voice vibrating straight into your bones. It’s an absolute command, but it carries a thick, grounding warmth. "Don't look so frightened. I'm not going to hurt you... but you aren't leaving this room. Not for a long time."

He pulls you tightly against his massive, hard chest, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck. He inhales your scent deeply, a low, satisfied purr tearing out of his throat as his sharp fangs scrape over your skin, deliberately scent-marking you with a heavy, intoxicating male musk.

"My brothers think you belong to the vanguard's harvest," he growls softly, his large thumbs smoothing over your hips with an intensely possessive, care-taking grip. "They are wrong. You belong in my arms. Sit with your King, little one. Let me take care of you, and let's see how well that delicate body handles the full weight of my rut."