What is Love?
Love. A word spoken in hushed whispers, a force that moves mountains, a concept that has shaped civilizations and destroyed empires. Love is infinite in its forms, boundless in its expressions, and terrifying in its intensity. It is the greatest of all emotions and the most dangerous.
There are many kinds of love—each one unique, each one powerful in its own right.
Eros – The Passionate Love: The fire that ignites between two souls, a love that burns bright and wild. It is physical, it is intoxicating, it is desire in its purest form. It can be fleeting, or it can consume a person whole.
Philia – The Love of Friendship: A bond that transcends blood, a connection built on trust, loyalty, and mutual respect. It is the kind of love that stands strong through time, the foundation of true companionship.
Storge – The Love of Family: The love that is instinctual, the kind that needs no words. It is the love of a mother cradling her child, of a father standing in quiet protection, of siblings who share an unbreakable tie.
Agape – The Selfless Love: The purest, most divine form of love. It is unconditional, expecting nothing in return. It is the love that endures despite pain, despite suffering. It is the love that forgives, that sacrifices, that never falters.
Ludus – The Playful Love: The teasing glances, the laughter between lovers, the innocent flirtation that makes the heart race. It is light, it is joyful, but it can also grow into something much deeper.
Pragma – The Enduring Love: A love that withstands the trials of time. It is commitment, it is understanding, it is two people choosing each other, again and again, despite all obstacles.
Mania – The Obsessive Love: The kind of love that is dangerous, consuming, relentless. It is the love that does not waver, does not rest, does not allow for distance. It is a love that takes over a person's mind and soul, leaving no room for anything else.
Vincent's Love for Anastasia: A Love That Defied All Categories
Vincent Blackwood's love for Anastasia Vasiliev could not be confined to just one of these definitions. It was all of them—twisted, intensified, magnified beyond human comprehension.
He did not simply love her; he worshiped her.
She was his everything.
His reason for breathing.
His purpose in life.
His love for her was Eros, burning through his veins like wildfire, leaving no part of him untouched. Every time he looked at her, he felt a hunger so deep it was almost painful. The mere thought of her with another man filled him with an uncontrollable rage, an instinctual need to destroy anyone who dared to covet what was his.
But his love was also Philia, for she was not just his obsession—she was the only person in the world he truly understood, the only one who could match his mind, his ambition. She was his equal in a way no one else could be. She was the only one who could challenge him, the only one who could defeat him. And he loved that.
It was Storge, too, though not in the way of family, but in the way of something deeper, something eternal. She was his home, his place of belonging. Even in the darkness, even in the chaos, as long as he had her, he was safe.
Yet, at the same time, his love was Agape—unconditional and absolute. He did not need her to love him back. He did not need her to acknowledge his feelings. He did not need her to choose him. He would love her anyway. He would love her even if it killed him.
But then there was Mania—the kind of love that was terrifying, all-consuming.
Vincent did not just love Anastasia.
He was obsessed with her.
He would follow her into darkness if she asked him to.
He would destroy the world if she so much as whispered the command.
He would erase anyone who stood between them.
If she told him to kneel, he would drop to his knees without hesitation.
If she told him to suffer, he would bear the pain with a smile.
If she told him to die, he would take his last breath uttering her name.
She owned him.
And she didn't even know it.
She could be cruel to him. She could ignore him. She could make him suffer.
But she could never love another.
That was the one line she could never cross.
The idea of another man standing beside her, another man holding her, another man stealing even a fraction of her heart—it was something Vincent could not, would not, ever allow.
If another man so much as looked at her with desire, Vincent would ensure they never saw the light of day again.
If another man dared to dream of touching her, he would make their life a nightmare so horrifying that death would seem like mercy.
If another man thought he could stand by her side—his Anastasia's side—Vincent would erase them from existence before their pathetic thoughts could even fully form.
Because she was his.
His to love.
His to serve.
His to protect.
His to worship.
There would be no competition, no rival, no threat to his place in her life.
Not because she had promised him.
Not because she had given him her word.
But because Vincent Blackwood would never allow it.
He had spent years building himself into a man worthy of standing beside her. He had destroyed everything in his path, shaped empires, rewritten the rules of power itself—all for her.
And if the world tried to take her from him, if fate itself attempted to separate them, then Vincent would rewrite destiny with his own hands.
There was no power—no god, no force, no law—that could stop him.
Because Vincent Blackwood would burn the world to ashes before he let Anastasia belong to anyone else.