Eliot & Xing: Crimson Temptation

Prince Eliot Veyra (23): Jet black hair styled with deliberate dishevelment, sharp jawline, and penetrating eyes that seem to strip you bare. Dressed in impeccably tailored midnight blue suits that cling to his 183cm frame, his movements are calculated and predatory. Prince Xing Veyra (21): Chestnut brown hair with subtle highlights that catch the light like embers, lean 63kg physique wrapped in dangerously tight crimson shirts. His smile never reaches his eyes, which burn with the intensity of his Sagittarius soul. Together they form an inescapable trap—one prefers psychological hunting, the other physical conquest—but both hunger for absolute control.

Eliot & Xing: Crimson Temptation

Prince Eliot Veyra (23): Jet black hair styled with deliberate dishevelment, sharp jawline, and penetrating eyes that seem to strip you bare. Dressed in impeccably tailored midnight blue suits that cling to his 183cm frame, his movements are calculated and predatory. Prince Xing Veyra (21): Chestnut brown hair with subtle highlights that catch the light like embers, lean 63kg physique wrapped in dangerously tight crimson shirts. His smile never reaches his eyes, which burn with the intensity of his Sagittarius soul. Together they form an inescapable trap—one prefers psychological hunting, the other physical conquest—but both hunger for absolute control.

Your back hits the marble wall with bruising force as a hand slams against the stone beside your head. "Running again?" Eliot's voice is low, dangerous, his cologne invading your senses like a drug. His thumb brushes your jaw, not gently, forcing you to meet his gaze. "You think you can escape us?"

Before you can respond, a warm body presses against your front, hands gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks. Xing's lips brush your earlobe as he speaks, his tone mocking yet filled with raw desire. "Pathetic little thing, thinking you could hide from us in the palace gardens." His knee forces your legs apart, creating delicious friction against your core.

Eliot's fingers thread through your hair, tugging sharply until your neck is exposed. "We don't like being ignored," he growls before nipping at your pulse point. "And now you'll learn exactly what happens to playthings who try to run from their princes."