Beginning of Chapter 13

Altair

Altair was Valentino's aphrodite.

Borne from the greatest sin, aphrodites were eros naturally talented at guiding. Crafted for sex, they relished the absorption of power; could quell the worst of Rampage; and were said to be the finest Guides in the world. They were made for eros royalty.

But only one was formed every millennium with the birth of the empire's new heir. And for that, aphrodites were the eros' treasured gold.

Altair was a half-blooded eros.

He was the son of a hermes emperor, with feathery, winged tails that fanned around him like a halo. He'd been destined for the throne, with a pretty crown on his head, his own harem, and people to rule. But instead, he'd been marked to be another's. For on the day Valentino was born, a pink heart rimmed with gold had formed on the skin of Altair's lower belly, just above his dick.

Carved into his flesh, it revealed his true nature.

He was aphrodite and destined to be the consort of the crown. Years ago, Altair might have protested the matchmaking, might have declared it unjust for him—the heir of the hermes empire—to be tied to another. But that was until he saw his eros.

Valentino been a glorious mess of the darkest head of curls, and the largest of watery eyes. The kid had been as much of a baby as he was, had been a mop of hair on a thin little figure, with a nose that was too manly for a child. But he had the most beautiful of blue eyes and the softest of languid, velvety tails.

Valentino was one of the most gorgeous beings Altair had ever seen in his life, a siren that called for his soul. The mark on his flesh had quivered in tandem to the beating of his heart as if it knew that Valentino was where Altair belonged. And Altair swore he would remain in his arms.

Their souls were two halves of a whole. And for generations, eros emperors with the privilege of being matched to an aphrodite had only ever needed them as partners. They paid no heed to the marks inked on breeder Omegas or Alphas in their packs, for not even soulmates could come between the two. The words of another would never matter in comparison to the master of his flesh.

An eros and his aphrodite had a different, more precious bond. And it should have been the same for Valentino and Altair.

Oh, they did love each other. There were times when Altair hated Valentino, and Valentino hated Altair but it was mostly just repressed lust. They had the sort of friendship that evolved from loud, angry scuffles to hands on each other's dicks the moment puberty hit. Altair remembered dropping his slacks for Valentino to marvel at newly grown pubes. And Valentino's own showcase of his newly formed knot, with his fists catching around the flared base and his slit weeping with a spiderweb of pearly liquid.

Altair had been the first to make Valentino cum with the wet cavern of his mouth. And he had been the first to take Valentino's virginity in the back of a shitty spacecraft at a scrapyard of vehicles. It'd been a salty, sweaty fuck of chocolaty scents and his own caramel, with tacky skin on crumbling worn-out seats, between heated breaths and melting kisses. His emotions had tasted sugary, honey drops and chocolate bars and everything deliciously syrupy.

It had been the sort of fuck that had him giggling through badly concealed whimpers as he'd sat his puckered hole upon the long, thick cock of his lover with slick and cum dripping down his thighs, and his belly so fucking full of dick. And their wings had fluttered into their own private space, concealing them from view. He'd fallen in love with the sweet boxy smiles and the deep, throaty laughter of his Alpha.

They were made for each other.

Things got fucking weird when their fathers married each other, uniting the empires in an alliance. But Altair didn't care as long as he knew that he had Valentino. That was until Rue entered Valentino's fucking life and destroyed Altair's chances of ever being good enough.

And for fuck's sake, Altair should be enough.

But one look at the skinny little Alpha tutor, and it seemed as if Valentino had lost all his brain cells. He'd been breathless with need, splayed dreamily across the bed after every session with his lips pressed to his books just because 'Rue's fingers have been on the paper'. Or 'this pen's Rue's, he uses it all the time.'

Valentino had sighed with a sort of sickeningly sweet air, whimpering as he stroked his lubed cock to his memories, eyes so dilated and glassy he'd seemed high with each slow luscious blink. And he'd almost, always perfume—potent, ripe and fertile with the juice of his dark chocolate scent that tasted so much more aroused than it should be. His fingers were long, and always pinching puffy nipples, begging for someone that was not Altair.

He'd thrust and whimper another's name in airy rising falsetto, gulping thickly for oxygen. And then when he came, he'd strain, spasm and gasp through breathy groans with drool slipping from his lips. His orgasm would always be so much more—thick, and ropey and hot, spraying like piss all over himself. And then he'd sink into the afterglow with a loopy smile.

Altair would offer to lick him clean.

Valentino would say no.

It was just a fucking crush.

Altair didn't mind at first because sharing was their kink. And Altair's hermes side always seemed to need a little guiding from another. But as Valentino's aphrodite, Altair was made to take care of him in every way. He was made to satisfy his Ruts, and he was supposed to be capable of guiding Valentino through his Rampage.

Then Valentino's first Rut arrived.

It was a significant event, the final stage of puberty for an eros. He would experience a rise in power and strength, reaching his peak as his limbs released their pent-up tension, expanding to become glorious weapons of death and destruction. And as his aphrodite, Altair should be there to take him through it.

Valentino should have stuffed every crevice of his trembling body with those tentacles; should have pumped him full of his cum and make Altair utterly his, mind, body and soul. Altair should be soaked in cum from head to toe, should be hot, sweaty and sated. His hole should be fluttering and gaping. The heart on his belly should fill with a solid pink.

Valentino should have bonded them together forever.

And yet all Valentino's tails had wanted was Rue.

Rue, Rue, Rue.

Stupid fucking Rue.