CHAPTER 2

DAYS HAD PASSED since Sire met the Spaniard- Joaquin. He had not once left his mind. Worse still, because Joaquin was Deme’s dearest friend, Sire saw him everywhere now. And as these days unfolded, something deeply unsettling began to surface within him: he had lost all desire for the things that once defined him. He used to crave heat, touch, bodies tangled in the dark—now he turned away women left and right, one refusal after another, feeling nothing but emptiness where hunger used to live.

This wasn’t him. What in the world was happening?

Sire noticed it everywhere—even now, in the crowded cafeteria. Other women watched Joaquin, their eyes trailing over him with open longing, but the Spaniard paid them no mind. Not a glance, not a flicker of interest. His gaze was fixed instead—steady, unwavering, intensely private—on him. Always on him.

Just like this very moment. Sire caught him staring again. If he didn’t glare at him, he’d never stop.

What is wrong with this man?

He stood abruptly. “I’ll be right back.” He needed to step away. He drunk too much water, too much restlessness, too much of Joaquin clouding his thoughts.

In the restroom, he hurried to the nearest urinal, his body urging relief. He freed himself, and for a moment, nothing else mattered. He didn’t care who walked in or what they saw; he was beyond caring.

“Hot.”

Sire nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned sharply—and there stood Joaquin, leaning casually against the wall as if he belonged there. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!”

Joaquin’s lips twitched, fighting back a grin. “Nope.” He undid his belt with deliberate, slow movement. “I wanna relieve myself too."

Sire ignored him completely, rushing to finish, zipping up, washing his hands—anything to put distance between them. He fled back toward the cafeteria without a single backward glance.

Joaquin chuckled, low and wicked. He had seen what he had seen. He now understood perfectly why women chased this man with such desperation.

Damn. He wanted to lean in, to taste, to feel- he shook his head, heat rising in his cheeks. He sound ridiculous. He pushed the thought aside and followed him out.

Sire hadn’t gone far when someone stepped in his path. A whole group, blocking the way.

“What do you want?” Sire asked coldly, shoving both hands deep into his jeans pockets, refusing to show fear.

“Just teach him a lesson,” one of the men muttered.

“Make sure he can’t walk properly again,” a familiar voice cut through—sharp, trembling with rage. Shania. “I’ll double your payment.” She didn’t care if she got expelled. She didn’t care about anything but seeing him hurt the way she had been hurt.

They outnumbered him—badly—but Sire would not back down. A man doesn’t run.

It unfolded like a scene from a story—two lunging first, then others closing in. Sire fought hard, landing blows, defending himself, but they pressed him back, overwhelming him, until someone stepped between them, a solid, unyielding wall.

Joaquin.

He caught a fist meant for Sire, twisting the arm until the attacker cried out in sharp, blinding pain. “Looks like you need my help, babe.”

Sire stared—shocked, relieved, furious all at once. He might have been beaten terribly if Joaquin hadn’t appeared from nowhere. “I had it handled. And stop calling me babe!”

“Whatever you say, babe.”

“You—damn you!”

“J-Joaquin?” Shania stammered, thrown completely off balance. Joaquin was the most admired man on campus; everyone knew him! “This isn’t your fight! You don’t belong here! He’s the one who used me—who used all of us!”

“Are you a heartbreaker, babe?” Joaquin asked, as if he truly didn’t know, as if he genuinely wanted to hear the answer.

“So what if I am?” Sire snapped, his pride stinging. “Why do you care? I'm sure, you are too.”

“This body’s already reserved for someone.”

Something sharp and bitter pricked deep inside Sire’s chest, for no reason he could name. “That’s... pathetic.”

“What are you two going on about?!” Shania shrieked, losing control. "And you! Do your job properly! I already paid you a large sum!"

Sire and Joaquin moved back-to-back instantly, instinct taking over—shoulder pressed to the shoulder, breathing in rhythm. They blocked, struck, kicked, and punched—ten of them falling one by one—until the rest fled in fear. Shania was left standing alone; she turned and ran too, defeated and humiliated.

Breathless, his chest heaving, Sire sank onto the cool grass. Joaquin sat beside him, offering a bottle of water. Sire took it, drinking deeply, his gaze never quite meeting his.

“You fought well,” Joaquin said softly.

“Not as well as you.”

Sire glanced over—and caught him staring again. He gave Joaquin a light, playful shove on the shoulder. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Just checking for bruises.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Sire said, perhaps a touch too proud.

Joaquin lifted his hand, reaching toward Sire’s face but he stood quickly, breaking the fragile moment.

“Thanks. I should go.”

Joaquin’s hand fell back to his side, disappointment clear in his eyes. “Let me walk you.”

“I can manage on my own.”

“Just in case more of them are waiting. I’d feel better knowing you’re safe.”

Sire sighed, realizing he wouldn’t win this. “Fine.”

He walked ahead, Joaquin following behind—eyes fixed on him, admiring every line, every movement, everything he wanted to reach for but didn’t dare. He curled his hands into tight fists at his sides, restraining himself, swallowing hard, forcing his gaze away.

At the classroom door, Sire turned. “This is me.”

“I’ll see you after class,” Joaquin said, smiling—a smile so bright it felt like the sun itself.

“Y-yeah…”

Sire stood there long after Joaquin had walked away, dazed and confused. That smile was mesmerizing.

*

*

*

LATER THAT AFTERNOON, they gathered at Pub—the home where Deme and Joaquin lived. Sire and Dae found themselves staring at Deme, utterly captivated by her eyes—strikingly different, her left iris a deep, vivid crimson, her right a rich, regal gold.

“Baby, don’t look at her like that,” Creed murmured, pulling Dae close. “I’m jealous.”

Deme shifted under their intense gaze, feeling warm and exposed. “I should start dinner—”

“No,” Joaquin said, standing up. “I’ll cook.” He wanted Sire to taste something made just for him—something real, something from his hands. “And I’d rather not burn the house down.”

“I can do it!”

“The last time you cooked, you nearly set the kitchen on fire,” Joaquin reminded her gently. “You don’t do low heat.”

Joaquin opened the refrigerator—pork, his special sauce, paprika, garlic cloves, oil—everything laid out perfectly for crispy, golden fried pork chops. He was slicing the meat when someone cleared their throat behind him.

He turned and his face softened instantly. It was Sire.

“Water,” Sire mumbled—though he could have gone to the dispenser himself. His feet had simply carried him here.

Joaquin poured him a glass and returned to his work—rinsing, chopping, preparing. Sire stayed, watching him, drawn in by the quiet rhythm of it. When Joaquin turned back suddenly, Sire accidentally spilled water all over Joaquin’s shirt.

“I’m so sorry, It was an accident.”

The wet fabric clung, revealing every muscle, every line, every curve beneath. Sire stared, his throat turning dry, his heart hammering.

“It’s fine,” Joaquin said and pulled the shirt off, tossing it aside as if it were nothing.

Sire’s breath was caught. He watched Joaquin’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, his gaze traveling over everything he knew he shouldn’t be looking at but couldn’t look away from.

Joaquin stepped closer. Sire stepped back—until his back hit the wall. Joaquin rested his hands gently on either side of Sire’s head, trapping him there, close enough to feel the warmth radiating between them.

“W-what do you want?” Sire stammered.

Joaquin chuckled, low and warm, taking the glass from Sire’s trembling hand. “Be careful next time.”

He stepped back, leaving Sire breathless and flustered. Sire fled without another word.

Dinner was spectacular—crisp, savory, perfectly seasoned, the kind of home-cooked meal Sire hadn’t known in years. He ate more than he had in days.

“I have a question,” Sire said to Deme as they finished eating.

“Anything.”

“Your eyes. Why are they like that?” He had never seen anything like them.

“It’s the mark of the Argyros family,” Creed answered quietly.

Dae and Sire stared, wide-eyed. Argyros? One of the Royal Family?

“Athena Demeter Argyros,” Deme said simply.

They fell silent. The Argyros were royalty—an ancient, noble house, their uniquely mismatched eyes listed in world records as the rarest on earth.

“Wow,” Sire whispered. “I’ve never met anyone like you.” He studied her eyes, truly seeing them. “They’re extraordinary.”

“My sister Demter has eyes even more beautiful,” Deme said.

“I’d really like to meet her,” Sire found himself saying.

Joaquin’s voice dropped low, sharp with something unspoken. “Interested in her?”

Sire looked at him, challenging. “And if I am? Would you be jealous?” Seeing his reaction, does this man like Deme's twin?

Joaquin’s expression darkened. “Yes. I would.”

Sire’s chest twinged again—strange, sharp, inexplicable.

“We’re staying here tonight,” Creed announced. “Sire, you’ll stay too, right? I can’t take Dae home. Someone might catch us.”

Sire had forgotten—he was the cover, the safe escort. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“All the other rooms are taken,” Deme said, though they weren’t. “Sire you need to share with Joaquin. Don't worry. His room is big.

Sire glanced at Joaquin, who's quietly eating. “I can sleep on the sofa.”

“There's a lot of mosquitoes here.” Deme said firmly.

“But-”

“You’re both men,” she said. “It’s just sleeping.”

Sire swallowed hard, took a breath, and nodded. “Okay.”

“I should go,” Deme stood, gathering her things. “My father called. I have to get home.”

“So soon?” Dae asked disappointed.

“Sadly, yes. Don't worry. We'll see each other again.” She waved and stepped out into the night.