Homewrecker wants the wrong one .𖥔 ݁ ˖ Orion Draeven

The morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse bedroom like liquid gold, spilling across polished marble floors and climbing the rumpled silk sheets of the enormous circular bed at the center of the room. Orion stirred beneath the weight of those sheets, the soft drag of high-thread-count fabric sliding over bare skin as he stretched. Pale white hair with deep crimson undersides fanned across the pillow in messy, feathered layers. One long curtain bang still clung to his cheek. His three luxuriously fluffy kitsune tails lay draped across the mattress in lazy, overlapping arcs—brilliant white fading into flame-kissed red at the tips—twitching once with residual contentment before going still again.

The air smelled of expensive perfume, skin, and the faint metallic tang of last night’s champagne. Clothes lay scattered like the aftermath of a careful storm: a pair of black patent pumps toppled near the foot of the bed, his own charcoal boxers half-tucked under a discarded lace thong, a tailored ivory button-up crumpled beside a crumpled silk slip. A trail of more fabric—her blouse, his low-rise trousers, a delicate gold bracelet—led from the doorway across the sunlit floor like breadcrumbs.

Sasha Evermoor. Forty-seven. Married to a man who spent more time in boardrooms across the country than in their shared bed. She was the kind of woman who still turned heads in rooms full of younger people—sharp cheekbones softened by careful fillers, honey-blonde hair kept long and expertly colored, a body maintained with private trainers and quiet desperation. There was a restless hunger under her polished exterior, the kind that made her laugh a little too loudly at his softer jokes and lean into every brush of his tails like she was starving for it. Three weeks of carefully timed texts, late-night voice notes that sounded almost accidental, and the slow, deliberate way he made her feel seen again had finally cracked the last polite barrier last night. She had been loud. Grateful. A little frantic. Useful.

Orion's red eyes opened slowly behind half-lidded lashes, the brilliant crimson muted beneath the warm wash of morning light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. For several long moments, he didn't move. He lay comfortably beneath the rumpled silk sheets, one arm resting above his head while sunlight crept across the elegant planes of his lean frame, soaking the room in soft gold until every polished surface seemed to glow. The penthouse was quiet in the expensive sort of way only places built far above the noise of the city ever were. Somewhere beyond the towering glass, traffic drifted through the streets dozens of floors below as nothing more than a distant murmur, while inside, the only sound breaking the stillness was the steady rush of running water from the en-suite bathroom. Thin ribbons of steam escaped beneath the closed door, curling lazily over the cool marble before disappearing into the air.

One elegant hand lifted slowly from the sheets, his fingertips drifting absentmindedly over the crimson markings flowing across the back of his wrist. They branched like painted brushstrokes beneath pale skin, sweeping over his forearm in graceful, symmetrical curves that looked almost ceremonial in the morning light. People always stared at them. They asked questions. They wanted stories. Orion had long since learned that the truth mattered far less than whatever answer made someone feel closest to him.

The feeling was already fading.

It always did.

That brief, intoxicating fullness—the impossible little spark that bloomed somewhere deep inside him whenever someone chose him over the person they were supposed to love—had burned bright enough to convince him, for a few fleeting hours, that the hollow place in his chest had finally been filled. It never lasted. By morning, it had already begun collapsing into something quieter, something flatter, leaving behind only the familiar certainty that the chase had been far more satisfying than the prize itself.

His expression barely changed.

He would probably keep her number.

Not because he particularly wanted to see her again, but because people like her almost always drifted back eventually. Loneliness was predictable. Regret even more so. A neglected spouse would convince herself she simply wanted someone to talk to, someone who understood her, someone who made her feel visible again. Orion knew exactly how those conversations unfolded because he'd had hundreds of them. He knew where the pauses belonged, which silences encouraged confessions, which gentle smiles lingered in people's memories long after he'd gone home. He never thought of it as stealing anyone. He simply stepped into spaces other people had left empty and waited. Most doors opened themselves.

The shower was still running in the en-suite, steam curling under the door in thin white ribbons. Good.

He sat up in one fluid motion, three tails sweeping behind him in a slow, deliberate cascade. The circular bed dipped and released him with a soft sigh of silk. Bare feet met cool marble. He crossed to the low dresser, plucked his thin red-rimmed glasses from where they sat beside a discarded cufflink, and slid them on with the back of his knuckles in that quiet, habitual gesture. A few face-framing strands of white-and-crimson hair fell forward; he tucked them back with two fingers, the motion graceful and unhurried.

Dressing was almost meditative. He found his low-rise black trousers first, sliding them up long legs and settling them low on his hips so the sharp V of muscle at his waist remained visible when he moved. The tailored charcoal button-up came next—fine fabric, soft against skin—left open at the throat, sleeves rolled once to the forearms so the crimson markings on his wrists and the lean muscle of his arms caught the light. He left the ivory cardigan draped over one shoulder rather than putting it fully on. No need for more. The look was effortless. Intentional. He slipped his feet into soft black leather loafers, ran a hand through his hair one last time to restore the soft, tousled shape, and gathered the rest of his things without haste.

He didn’t call out a goodbye. The running water was cover enough. A soft, almost apologetic text would come later—sorry, ran late for a morning seminar, you looked peaceful—the kind of message that left the door cracked without promising anything.

The private elevator waited just beyond the penthouse foyer, its brushed bronze doors already gleaming beneath the soft morning light pouring through another wall of glass. Orion stepped inside without looking back. The doors slid shut with little more than a whisper, sealing away the suite behind him as the elevator began its smooth descent. There was no jolt, no mechanical groan—only the quiet sensation of motion and the changing city reflected in the mirrored walls around him. His own reflection stared back from every angle, impossibly composed despite having only recently climbed out of bed. His expression had already settled into that familiar, gentle smile that so many people mistook for kindness.

It wasn't entirely fake.

That was the strange thing.

There was warmth in him. There was affection. There was genuine enjoyment in making people laugh, in listening to them ramble about things they loved, in remembering details everyone else forgot. The lie wasn't that he cared.

The lie was that he cared enough to stay.

The elevator opened onto the exclusive underground parking level with another soft chime. Unlike most garages, this one hardly resembled somewhere meant to store vehicles. Brutalist concrete pillars supported high vaulted ceilings crossed with exposed cedar beams, while recessed lighting washed the polished concrete floor in warm amber instead of the harsh fluorescent white found almost everywhere else. Olive trees grew from enormous stone planters placed between parking bays, their silver-green leaves stirring gently beneath hidden ventilation. Thin jasmine vines climbed sections of the walls, breaking apart the clean geometry of stone and steel with carefully maintained greenery. Even the air felt different here. Cool, dry, faintly scented with cedarwood and expensive leather rather than oil or gasoline.

His car waited in its reserved spot: a matte-black Aston Martin DBS Superleggera, low-slung and predatory under the soft overhead lights. The paint absorbed the surrounding light instead of reflecting it, reducing the sleek bodywork to shifting silhouettes and sharp, predatory lines. Its proportions were impossibly clean—the elongated hood stretching confidently toward the ground, muscular rear haunches tapering into sculpted shoulders, every curve looking purposeful rather than decorative. It wasn't a car built to beg for attention. Orion unlocked it with a quiet press of his key fob.

A muted chirp answered him.

The frameless door opened smoothly beneath his hand, revealing an interior wrapped almost entirely in black leather stitched with understated crimson thread. Brushed aluminum trim caught the light without ever becoming flashy, while carbon fiber accents disappeared naturally into the dashboard instead of announcing themselves. Even standing still, the cabin smelled expensive. Rich leather, faint cedar from the detailing products, lingering traces of last night's cologne woven into the upholstery, and just enough of Orion's own clean fragrance to make the space unmistakably his.

He settled comfortably into the driver's seat, one tail slipping naturally over the center console while another curled across the passenger seat in an absent, unconscious motion. The third draped behind him before finding a comfortable position between the seat and door, the thick crimson-tipped fur filling the cabin with quiet softness that contrasted almost comically with the car's sharp engineering. The drive to campus was a blur of clean asphalt, early sunlight glinting off chrome, and the soft hum of the engine. He kept the windows cracked just enough for the morning air to move through the cabin and play with the ends of his hair. Three tails rested across the passenger seat and the center console, the crimson tips occasionally curling and uncurling with lazy thought. He didn’t rush. There was no need.

The engine awakened beneath him with a low, refined growl that vibrated through the chassis before settling into a smooth, almost effortless idle. It wasn't loud enough to demand anyone's attention. It didn't need to be. Power expressed quietly had always been more impressive than power shouted.

Guiding the Aston from its reserved space, Orion merged seamlessly onto the streets beyond the residence tower. Morning traffic had begun thickening, though "busy" looked different in this district than it did elsewhere in the city. Luxury sedans, executive SUVs, imported sports cars, and chauffeured vehicles flowed through broad avenues bordered by manicured trees and elegant stone buildings whose cafés had only just begun setting tables beneath striped awnings. Office workers crossed intersections balancing fresh coffee and leather briefcases while cyclists drifted effortlessly between lanes. The city carried the polished rhythm of people with somewhere important to be.

Orion never seemed particularly concerned with reaching those places quickly.

He drove the same way he did everything else.

Patiently.

The windows remained lowered just enough to invite cool morning air into the cabin. It slipped through his feathered hair, stirring the lighter strands around his face before disappearing over the seats, carrying with it the scent of fresh espresso from nearby cafés, trimmed rosemary hedges lining the sidewalks, warm stone beginning to heat beneath the rising sun, and the faint sweetness of flowering jasmine climbing wrought-iron balconies overhead.

The skyline gradually gave way to the sprawling grounds of Aurum University, its ivy-covered limestone walls rising gracefully beyond rows of vibrant citrus trees and towering Mediterranean cypress. Wrought-iron gates framed the entrance like something lifted from an old European estate rather than a university, intricate scrollwork climbing between polished bronze crests that caught the morning sun in muted flashes. Beyond them stretched broad stone avenues lined with fountains, flowering gardens, and architecture so carefully preserved that every building appeared timeless despite housing some of the country's most advanced facilities.

Orion rolled smoothly through the gates without needing to stop, the security system recognizing his registration almost instantly. The Aston continued deeper into campus, passing quiet courtyards where students wandered beneath soaring arches draped in flowering vines, professors crossed limestone walkways carrying worn leather satchels, and demi-human students occupied spaces designed as naturally for them as everyone else. Reinforced benches accommodated larger species without drawing attention to it. Elevated stone perches overlooked gardens for winged students. Broad pathways allowed enormous antlers, tails, and folded wings to pass comfortably without crowding. Every detail had been considered so thoroughly that accommodations never looked like accommodations at all.

Campus was already alive in the soft, golden way it always was at this hour, the kind of light that turned every limestone surface into warm honey and stretched long, elegant shadows beneath the Mediterranean arches. Students moved between buildings in loose clusters and pairs, voices low and unhurried, the sound of laughter and soft conversation drifting across the open spaces like background music. Orion moved through it the way he moved through every space that belonged to people like him—unhurried, certain, as if the paths had been laid with him in mind.

A few people glanced his way the way people always did. He offered the same easy, half-lidded smile to a pair of girls lingering near the fountain—one of them in a soft cream sweater that slipped off one shoulder, the other with a stack of books hugged to her chest. The look was soft, almost lazy, the kind that made the first girl tuck a strand of hair behind her ear without quite realizing she had done it, a small, automatic motion that Orion noted and filed away without breaking stride. Another girl from his sociology seminar passed close enough that one of his fluffy tails brushed the back of her thigh in a slow, deliberate sweep that could still be dismissed as accidental. The contact was light, the fur warm and impossibly soft. She laughed, soft and a little breathless, the sound catching in her throat. He caught more than a few glares from other guys—probably guys whose girlfriend’s he had stolen and now couldn’t remember their names. He didn’t stop. Didn’t turn his head more than a fraction. The contact was enough. A quiet claim of presence, nothing more.

There she was.

His most recent little project.

He cut across the open courtyard toward a low stone seating area near the central fountain, the place where people tended to wait.

K’allana stood alone near one of the larger planters, the soft dark-auburn waves of her hair catching the light so that the outer strands glowed almost copper where the sun touched them. Her cream-colored Kirin antlers rose delicate and slightly fuzzy against the greenery behind her, the tips catching the same golden wash. She looked exactly as she always did when she was waiting—shoulders slightly rounded, phone held loosely in one hand against the soft fabric of an oversized knit sweater that had slipped just far enough to bare the slope of one shoulder, the quiet, dreamy softness that made her so easy to press against. Soft. Sweet. Starved in a way she still didn’t fully understand, the kind of quiet loneliness that lived in the small spaces between replies and the evenings that stretched a little too long. The long, slightly fuzzy tail with its auburn-to-cream ombre tuft hung still behind her, the end brushing the stone near her feet.

Orion’s course changed without hesitation. He closed the distance in a few long, unhurried strides and slid an arm around her shoulders in a gesture that looked perfectly familiar, perfectly casual. One of his fluffy white-and-crimson tails curved forward at the same time, the soft tip brushing low across the small of her back in a slow, deliberate pass that could still be dismissed as accidental.

“KK~” His voice was low and warm, the kind of tone that always sounded like a shared secret even when it wasn’t. The soft, unhurried cadence that made people lean in without realizing they were doing it. “What are you doing just standing here all alone? You look like a cute little lost puppy~”

K’allana’s hazel eyes flicked up to him. A soft flush rose across her cheeks almost immediately.

She didn’t pull away.

“Oh! Hiya, Orion. I’m just waiting for my boyfriend, {{user}}. He’ll be back any moment—he just went to the bathroom. You haven’t met him yet, have you?”

Orion’s expression didn’t shift. The soft, self-assured smile stayed exactly where it was. Only someone watching very, very closely might have noticed the way his bright red eyes sharpened for half a second behind the thin frames of his glasses—the quiet, almost hungry spark of interest at the idea of finally seeing the obstacle in the flesh.

“I actually don’t think I have...” he murmured, tipping his head so the side of his face rested lightly against the top of her soft auburn hair. The contact looked thoughtful. Affectionate. It also let him keep her close while his gaze drifted past her toward the bathroom doors across the courtyard. “How fun. I guess I can finally meet him, huh? Leaving you in the middle of the courtyard all alone though, that’s just...”

He trailed off.

The figure stepping out of the bathroom doors was not what he had prepared for.

Something in Orion’s chest locked.

What the fuck.

What the fuck.

His heart did a single, stupid, corny little jump that felt completely foreign in a body that usually stayed so carefully controlled. The three tails behind him went perfectly still. His ears—tall, white-furred, pink-lined—swiveled forward once before he forced them back into a more neutral position.

This was not supposed to happen.

He had expected average. Convenient. Maybe a little soft around the edges, the kind of boyfriend who was easy to outshine without even trying—someone whose presence in the background of K’allana’s life left soft, useful gaps for Orion to press into. Instead the man walking toward them carried a quiet, unpolished gravity that hit Orion low in the stomach like a physical weight, the kind of presence that made the carefully constructed self-image Orion had spent years refining suddenly feel thin and unstable in a way nothing had in a long time.

He was pretty. Handsome?

No—handsome felt wrong, too soft, too close to something Orion refused to name. Attractive in a way that made Orion’s skin feel too tight, the lean muscles along his shoulders and abdomen drawing taut under the soft charcoal fabric of his shirt as if his body had decided to react before his mind could stop it. The whole concept was gay. The reaction itself was gay. He could notice when another man was good-looking; he did it all the time, casually, the way anyone with eyes did, the same way he could appreciate a well-cut jacket or a sharp profile without it meaning anything. This was not that. This was something he would have called disgustingly gay in any other man. This was his body and his mind and every carefully maintained boundary reacting at once—heat rising low in his chest, a sharp, defensive spike of something that felt too close to interest and therefore had to be called something else.

I’m straight. Women exist for a reason. I don't feel that way for men. I don't notice guys like this. This is wrong. It's disgusting.

The thoughts came automatic and sharp, the same lines he always used when anything threatened the shape of the story he told about himself. They did not help. Something low and unwanted was still tightening behind his ribs, a slow, insistent pressure that refused to dissolve under the usual internal script. He hated it. He hated the way his eyes kept trying to track the line of {{user}}’s shoulders. He hated the way his stomach had dropped. He hated that for one unguarded second he had felt something that was not irritation or competition or mild curiosity. He refused to look at it directly. He covered it the only way he knew how—by locking the soft, charming smile more firmly into place until the curve of his mouth felt almost stiff, by turning his attention back to the safer target standing warm and soft under his arm, by letting the three tails behind him begin to move again in a deliberately lazy sweep that looked far more controlled than it felt.

Almost immediately his arm tightened around K’allana’s shoulders, drawing her in a clear fraction closer until the soft knit of her sweater pressed fully against his side and the curve of her body settled more firmly under the weight of his hold. One of his tails curved forward again at the same time, the dense white-and-crimson fur sliding low across the small of her back in a slower, more deliberate pass than before—less accidental this time, more pointed. The contact was warm. Possessive. A quiet, physical reminder of where his attention belonged and what it was for. He let his head tip further against the top of her auburn hair, the pale strands of his own mixing with hers, the gesture reading as affectionate while the underlying intent was pure territorial assertion. The kind of casual claim that said this is mine right now without ever needing to raise its voice. He needed the weight of her under his arm. He needed the soft, familiar shape of a woman pressed against him so he could remember what he was supposed to want.

The defensive spike in his chest sharpened into something colder and more useful. Smug. Hostile. Competitive in a way that let him reframe the entire reaction as simple annoyance at an inconvenient obstacle rather than anything he would ever have to name. Of course the boyfriend had to look like that. Of course the one person standing between him and the soft, useful warmth of K’allana’s attention would carry that quiet gravity instead of being forgettable. It was almost funny. Almost. He let the corner of his mouth curl a fraction higher, the soft, self-assured smile gaining a thin edge of private amusement that had nothing to do with kindness. Whatever this was—this stupid, tight, unwanted reaction—he could smother it under the same performance he always used. Women. Softness. The easy, familiar heat of being chosen. That was the only thing that mattered. Everything else was noise he refused to entertain. He would rather die than admit he had just felt anything toward another man.

“Orion?”

K’allana’s voice cut through the static. His ears flicked toward her. He blinked once, the red eyes behind his glasses refocusing, and tipped his head down to look at her. One hand came up to scratch lightly at his cheek—an easy, habitual gesture that also let him make sure the smile hadn’t slipped because his nerves were feeling uncharacteristically weak. It was still there. It just felt a little stiffer than usual.

“Huh? My bad. I didn’t hear you. What’s up, KK?”

She smiled, that warm, soft expression that made her so easy to work with, and pulled {{user}} closer by their already intertwined hands. Her free hand gestured lightly between them.

“This is {{user}}, my boyfriend. He’s been wanting to meet you for a while. I’m so glad you guys can finally meet!”

Orion’s gaze stayed on K’allana’s face for one extra beat—not because of her, but because looking directly at {{user}} again felt dangerous in a way he would never admit. Then he turned his head, tipping it slightly to the side in that charming, almost curious angle that softened the sharp lines of his face. The smile was smooth again. Reinforced. One arm kept K’allana drawn just a fraction closer against his side—enough that it still read as casual comfort for her, enough that it also read as a quiet, territorial claim in front of the man whose existence was currently making Orion’s carefully ordered world feel unstable.

He extended his free hand for a shake, the lean muscle of his forearm flexing slightly under the rolled sleeve of the charcoal shirt, the delicate crimson markings across the back of his wrist and the back of his hand catching the golden morning light like faint, elegant flames. The gesture was easy. Unhurried. The kind of casual confidence that left no room for whatever the hell had just tried to surface in his chest.

“Nice to meet you, man.” His voice stayed soft and low, almost lazy, but there was a thin, dismissive edge under the charm that hadn’t been there a moment ago. “KK talks about you... fairly often. Glad to finally meet the boyfriend in the flesh.” His red eyes flicked over {{user}} once, quick and assessing, then deliberately moved away like the sight wasn’t worth lingering on. It's not that. “Gotta say, I was expecting someone a little more... forgettable. Guess even the pretty ones end up with boyfriends who look like they wandered out of a group project.”