Romans & histoires Devotion

Luna replied with confusion, "I don't understand what you mean." "I always aspired to achieve Guardian Divinity, a power phenomena that occurs only with consistency of Guardian Fidelity. But how can I if I have failed to mentor you? You see, what I see in you is a reflection of me." "No tatay, I am a natural stubborn-head, I always try to find loopholes and get myself in trouble, what I am is not who you are, you are not a disappointment like me." "You are not a disappointment, that is not what I am saying. What I mean is, you are a fruit of my negligence and laxity. I should've been a better mentor to you."

Known. The way he looked at me— eyes dark, voice low, breath warm against my collarbone— made my body ache with something deeper than lust. It was devotion. It was the kind of intimacy that rewrites you. The way he whispered my name as if it were a prayer, the way our bodies moved together like we were trying to imprint the moment into our bones. I clung to him, not just for pleasure, but for meaning. For permanence.

“What a beautiful name for you, baby girl.” I’m not sure why, but I didn’t like the idea of any guy touching her. Am I getting possessive over this female? Wow, what’s getting into me to feel this way? I took a puff on the cigarette as I sat next to her taking my hand to brush it against her cheek. I wanted to have sex with her, but I also wanted to know her and even protect her. As I went to kiss her, that’s when the damn cell phone goes off. I get pissed to see that it’s the club calling me, but I answer because I wanted to know why they there calling me. “I’m really sorry to bother you Mr. Baphomet, but Pyro the president of the Burning Devils is here looking for what I believe to be Ang

A pause. "Time to pay for losing control." Alexander's entire body shuddered. The red glow in his eyes weakened. The violence faded. The rage dissolved. The killing instinct vanished piece by piece. What remained was something far more dangerous. Devotion. Absolute devotion. The kind that demanded nothing. The kind that survived humiliation. The kind that would gladly crawl through hell if she pointed the way. He lowered his gaze. Not because he was defeated. Because he had already surrendered everything. To her.

The red shirt underneath feels like a deliberate choice, the vibrant color bold against the dark suit, and it reminds me of the blood that will soon be spilled, that will stain my hands before the night is over. “Welcome Mr…” he begins, stretching his hand to me. An unwise decision, I think, as I glance at his extended hand- a gesture to show trust, to form a connection. It's a pity he’s just offered his hand to The Devil, to the very man who will soon be taking his last breath. “Levi” I answer, my voice is calm, controlled, as I grasped his hand in mine. The contact is brief, but it’s enough to have his face imprinted at the back of my mind.

Anything to keep my hands busy. Finally, Devon spoke. “You make it sound like it meant nothing.” His voice was steadyy. But the anger beneath it was unmistakable. I glanced at another set of papers, flipping them into proper order. “Marriage is supposed to be a sacred bond,” he continued. His chair creaked slightly as he leaned forward. “One that should be cherished.” I almost smiled at that. But there was nothing humorous about the words coming from him. Without turning around, I placed the clipboard back on the table. “You’re the one who didn’t cherish it,” I replied calmly.

he said slowly, watching me with eyes that flickered with something darker than just obsession, "what makes you think I'd ever stop loving you?" His voice dipped into a whisper. "I didn't stop two years ago when I first saw you. I didn't stop when you walked down the aisle to marry him. I didn't stop when you looked at him with that softness I wanted for myself. And I sure as hell won’t stop now." My throat tightened. I bit into my lower lip to keep myself from saying something I couldn't take back. Ronan was unraveling. Not with rage or fury, but with devotion so intense it bordered on destruction.

Damon was sitting next to me, his hands tending to the bruises that were starting to grow down my arms while I sat inches away from him. Every touch was a message of something I couldn't yet play out from my legs to my brain and back through my spine. A scent. An aroma. An awakening of something spoke of the past. He acknowledged, "Evans, they're beginning to respect you." "But respect isn’t enough." I gave him a quick look. "Then what is enough?" He stared at me, his face unreadable. "Devotion. Furthermore, you cannot demand that. It must be earned by you.”

I thought his anger was better than his coldness and indifference. But tonight, there was something else other than anger. I could see it clearly when I stared into his eyes. Hatred. And it’s not the kind of hatred I have for him, one that is borne by his presence being a nuisance in my life. His is cold and deep and real. I sit with that thought for a long moment, turning it over and over again in my head.

"Every rescue, every moment of comfort I provided, every bit of protection—it was all to make you depend on me." "That's insane," I breathed, backing toward what I hoped was an exit. Nathan's expression darkened immediately. "Don't you dare judge me. You don't understand what real devotion looks like." "This isn't devotion," I snapped, finding some courage in my anger. "This is obsession. This is manipulation." "Call it whatever you want," he said with a shrug. "But you can't deny that I've been the most constant presence in your life. When Arthur broke your heart, who was there? When you needed a place to heal, who provided it?