Page 107 of The Dark Lord Awakens
Lucien had cast aside the covers in his sleep, clearly affected by the unusual warmth he had mentioned earlier. But it wasn’t this that caused Azrael to freeze in place, every muscle suddenly rigid with shock and want. It was what his master was wearing.
Gone were the modest silk pajamas Lucien typically slept in. Instead, he wore the revealing garments Azrael had delivered earlier—those black shorts that barely covered his essentials and the matching tank top that clung to every curve and plane of his torso like a second skin. Though Azrael had selected these pieces himself, had imagined how they might look on his master’s form, the reality before him now was far more devastating than any fantasy. The silver trim caught the moonlight, drawing his gaze to places he had always forced himself not to linger upon but now could not tear his eyes from.
One smooth thigh was fully exposed, the shorts having twisted during sleep to reveal more than they concealed. The tank had ridden up, exposing a strip of pale stomach that glowed almost luminescent in the moonlight. Lucien’s silver-white hairwas tousled from sleep, spread across the pillow like liquid moonlight.
Azrael’s body responded instantly, a surge of heat flooding through him so intense it bordered on pain. He gripped the doorframe, the wood creaking slightly under the pressure of his fingers as he fought for control.
The scent hit him next—the unmistakable aroma of recent pleasure, of release, of sexual satisfaction. It permeated the room, subtle but unmistakable to Azrael’s enhanced senses. Beneath it was another scent, one he didn’t recognize—something exotic and clearly from the void realms.
His master had pleasured himself tonight. Recently. Extensively, judging by the lingering scent and the deep, satisfied quality of his sleep.
The knowledge sent another wave of heat through Azrael, followed immediately by a surge of possessive rage. Who had his master been thinking of? Some fantasy figure? The thought of Lucien pleasuring himself while thinking of anyone else was unbearable.
He should leave. Now. Before he did something unforgivable.
Instead, he moved closer, drawn by a compulsion he could not resist—a compulsion that had been growing stronger each day, testing the limits of his control, threatening to shatter his perfect service. Before he realized what was happening, he was seated on the edge of the bed, his weight causing the mattress to dip slightly toward him.
Lucien did not wake, merely shifted in his sleep, turning more fully onto his back. The movement caused the t-shirt to ride higher, revealing more of that smooth, pale torso that Azrael had spent centuries preserving to perfection. The skin glowed with an otherworldly luminescence—an enhancement he had carefully cultivated during Lucien’s long sleep, telling himself it was simply to maintain the dark lord’s magnificence.
Azrael’s hand moved of its own volition, hovering inches above his master’s exposed thigh. He could feel the heat radiating from the skin, could see the faint blue tracery of veins beneath the alabaster surface. His fingers trembled with the effort of restraint, every instinct urging him to touch, to claim, to possess.
This wasn’t the first time he’d been tempted. Throughout the centuries of Lucien's slumber, he had cared for his master's body with reverent hands, always upholding the pretense of clinical detachment while his desire burned beneath the surface. Each day since Lucien’s awakening, that temptation had grown stronger, each day his control frayed further. The battle between duty and desire had become a war zone in his mind, casualties mounting on both sides.
Slowly, inexorably, his hand descended until his fingertips made contact with warm skin.
The sensation was electric, sending a jolt of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain through Azrael’s entire body. He inhaled sharply, his eyes widening at the unprecedented feeling. Lucien’s skin was softer than he had imagined, warm and smooth beneath his cool touch.
His hand moved, caressing the length of his master’s thigh with featherlight pressure. The contact sent waves of heat through him, pooling in his lower abdomen and causing a hardness to form between his legs that was both familiar and more insistent than ever before.
Azrael leaned closer, mesmerized by his lord’s sleeping face. The long silver lashes resting against pale cheeks, the slightly parted lips, the vulnerable curve of his throat—each detail was perfection, each feature a work of art that Azrael had admired for centuries but never fully appreciated until these past weeks of torturous proximity.
An overwhelming urge seized him—to press his lips against that exposed throat, to taste the skin he had only ever touched in the line of duty. To claim Lucien in a way that went far beyond service or protection.
He bent forward, his face now inches from his master’s, close enough to feel his warm breath. Azrael’s heart thundered in his chest like a war drum. His body burned with desire, with need, with a hunger that had been building for centuries, growing stronger each day until it threatened to consume him entirely.
His lips hovered above Lucien’s, so close that the slightest movement would bring them together. In that moment, Azrael wanted nothing more than to close that infinitesimal distance, to taste what he had always desired but had never dared claim.
Lucien stirred, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep, and turned his head slightly.
The movement broke the spell. Horror flooded Azrael as awareness of his actions crashed over him like ice water. He was touching his master without permission, taking liberties that went beyond any acceptable boundary, contemplating acts that would constitute the gravest betrayal of trust.
He jerked back, rising from the bed with supernatural speed. His body still burned with unfulfilled desire, the hardness between his legs painful in its intensity. Shame and confusion warred within him, alongside a hunger that refused to be denied.
Lucien shifted again, showing signs of waking. Azrael froze, unable to compose himself, unable to mask the evidence of his inappropriate desire. For the first time in centuries of perfect service, he fled.
Moving with preternatural speed, he slipped from the chamber and down the corridor to his own quarters. Once inside, he leaned against the closed door, his breath coming in ragged gasps. What had he done? What had he almost done?
As his racing thoughts slowed, a disturbing realization began to take shape—one he had been avoiding for centuries. During Lucien's long slumber, Azrael had made certain… adjustments… to his master's form. He had reduced Lucien's height from an imposing six feet to a more delicate five foot seven, refined his musculature from powerful to elegant, enhanced the luminosity of his skin and the fullness of his lips.
At the time, Azrael had justified these modifications as improvements that emphasized Lucien's natural beauty. But now, faced with the intensity of his desire, he was forced to confront a terrible truth: he had not been creating the perfect dark lord. He had been creating his perfect desire.
Unconsciously, he had molded Lucien to match his own unacknowledged preferences—smaller, more delicate, more vulnerable. A form that awakened protective instincts alongside possessive ones. A form that fit perfectly against his own larger frame.
The realization sent a wave of shame through him, followed immediately by another surge of that insistent, unfamiliar desire. The hardness between his legs had not abated; if anything, it had intensified with his disturbing epiphany.
He pressed a hand against the front of his trousers, hoping to somehow quell the sensation, and gasped as the contact sent a jolt of pleasure through him so intense his knees nearly buckled.
This was madness. He was Lucien’s protector, his most loyal servant. These feelings, these urges—they were inappropriate, disrespectful, a betrayal of his sacred duty.
