..
Win looked around, mesmerized. The sunlight made the white plumerias glow like pearls. But Mark only had eyes for Win. The man's face glowed in the sun, his hair waving in the wind. Mark couldn't control the pull of his heart; he pulled Win close, his hands finding Win's waist inside the blazer. He leaned in and kissed him, his right hand caressing the sensitive skin of Win's nape.
Win didn't hold back. He accepted the passionate kiss, his hands finding Mark's back, feeling the broad expanse of shoulders that seemed to dwarf his own. Mark pushed him gently against the wall, looming over him so completely that the rest of the floor vanished. Because of the height between them, Win had to tilt his head back at a sharp angle, his spine curving to meet Mark's downward press.
The kiss grew intense, a desperate exploration of breath and heat. Mark didn't have to strain; he simply bowed his head, his lips grazing Win's jaw before migrating to his neck. He buried his face in the crook of Win's shoulder, his larger frame boxing Win in against the plaster. Win let out a hoarse moan, "Aaahhhhh.... Aahhh....."
He raised his head, eyes closed in surrender. He reached up, his arms stretching upward to cup Mark's face with both palms, pulling the taller man down to bridge the gap between them once more. Their tongues danced in a language only they knew, a frantic rhythm of give and take.
Mark's hand slid inside Win's shirt, his arm angled downward as his palm found the heat of Win's waist. His hand felt massive there, his fingers wrapping almost entirely around the curve of Win's side, anchoring him firmly. Win felt small but cherished, caught between the solid weight of the wall and the overwhelming, towering presence of the man he loved.
"Brother!"
The voice shattered the moment. Win opened his eyes, breathless, while Mark's grip lingered for a second too long, as if he hated the interruption. Footsteps thundered toward them.
Win pushed Mark lightly, his face flushed. "Come to your senses; someone is coming." He wiped his swollen lips while Mark adjusted Win's shirt, and his cool Master persona clicked back into place.
"Brother! What are you doing? And who is he?" Meera asked, her eyes wide.
"He is your brother-in-law," Mark said, his voice dropping an octave, colored with a thick, possessive pride that made Win's heart skip. He turned his attention to the little girl, a playful sternness in his eyes. "Didn't I ask you not to jump on the stairs?"
The word "brother-in-law" hit Win like a physical weight, sending a fresh wave of heat climbing up his neck—this time, it wasn't from a kiss, but from a dizzying rush of affection and nerves. He felt exposed, as if the title Mark had just claimed for him made their bond official in a way that left him breathless. His skin was still humming from Mark's touch, and the sudden shift to family introductions left him fumbling for his composure.
Meera pouted, her eyes wide and curious, but Win scrambled to find his footing. He quickly knelt down to her level, partially to hide the crimson flush deepening on his cheeks and partially to steady his trembling knees.
Trying to tuck away the lingering daze of the terrace, he offered a shy, soft-edged smile. "Hello..." he started, his voice a little breathier than usual. "My name is Win. What's yours?"
"My name is Meera." She looked at Mark and giggled. "Brother... is this a surprise? Brother Win is more beautiful than you!" She threw her arms around Win.
Mark frowned, though his eyes were soft. "Stop hugging him. Let's go, I'm hungry. We also have to go shopping."
Meera's pout vanished, replaced by a look of solemn importance as she reached out. She didn't just take his hand; she wrapped her tiny fist around Win's pinky finger, anchoring herself to him with an innocent strength.
Win felt a sudden, sharp tug at his heart. The contrast was striking—just moments ago, he had been pinned against a wall by Mark's large, demanding hands, and now, he was being led captive by a child's miniature grip. As she began to pull him forward, Win rose from his knees, his movements a little clumsy as he allowed himself to be guided.
He glanced back at Mark, his eyes still wide and shimmering with a mix of lingering heat and newfound tenderness. The sight of Win—flushed, slightly disheveled from their encounter, and being led away by the smallest member of the family—brought a soft, triumphant curve to Mark's lips.
Win let out a small, breathless laugh, his gaze falling back to the little girl leading the way. "I guess I'm going with you then," he murmured, his voice softening as he followed her, his heart feeling dangerously full.
..
..
At breakfast, the mansion felt as though it were holding its breath, unsure if it was allowed to exhale.
For years, the dining hall had been a silent tomb. The staff used to move through the corridors like shadows, dreading the sound of the Master's footsteps. Before Win, Mark was a "Maniac" of cold precision; a dropped spoon or a misplaced shadow could result in a terrifying outburst or a silent dismissal that felt like an execution. The helpers had lived in a state of permanent, vibrating fear, their gazes always fixed on the floor, terrified of catching a glimpse of the "Executioner" who ate his meals in a room that felt like a glacier.
But today, the ice was melting, and it was a terrifyingly beautiful sight to behold.
Meera sat at the massive mahogany table, trying to navigate a stack of pancakes, but her small hands were struggling. A maid stepped forward instinctively, her movements jerky and her face pale—the ingrained habit of "perfect service" driving her to intercede before the Master noticed a mess.
But before she could reach the table, Win gently moved her hand aside. He didn't do it with authority, but with a softness that made the maid freeze in shock. He began feeding the little girl himself, cutting the pancakes into tiny, perfect bites. Meera, talked non-stop about Barbie dolls and the exact percentage of cocoa she wanted in her chocolates. Win listened with a rapt, shimmering focus, as if her childhood whims were the most important news in the world.
The staff watched from the kitchen door, huddled together in a way they never would have dared before. Their faces were masks of quiet, disbelieving joy. They looked at the Master, expecting the usual flash of annoyance at the noise or the "imperfection" of a family breakfast.
Instead, Mark sat at the head of the table, his coffee cooling, forgotten. He wasn't looking at his phone or the morning's "business" reports. He was watching Win and Meera. The jagged, lethal edges of his aura had smoothed out. The man who had screamed like a wounded beast only hours ago was gone; in his place was a Sovereign who finally had something worth ruling for.
The clink of plates and the high-pitched melody of Meera's laughter didn't provoke him—it seemed to nourish him. The helpers whispered to one another in the kitchen, their shoulders finally dropping from their ears. The "Maniac" hadn't just brought home a guest; he had brought home a soul. For the first time in years, the mansion didn't feel like a fortress or a prison. It felt like a home.
..
..
They went down, the air cool and smelling of expensive tire and gasoline. A guard approached, carrying a giant, overflowing bouquet of white plumerias that had just arrived. The Master took it, the heavy scent of the blossoms immediately filling the space. Meera smiled, her small face lighting up, and looked at Win with big, expectant puppy eyes.
The Master asked, his voice low and intimate, "Do you like these flowers?"
"A lot," Win said, his voice soft with wonder. He took the massive bouquet from Mark, his arms barely able to wrap around the sheer volume of flowers. His eyes were so adorable, wide and shining, as he got totally lost in the sea of white petals. For a moment, the world of scars and "White Rooms" didn't exist; there was only this scent.
"I ordered them especially for you," Mark added, watching the way Win's face softened.
"I want these to be in our room," Win said, adoring them as if they were the most precious things he'd ever touched. Mark nodded to the guard, his gaze wordlessly commanding him to handle the flowers with the utmost care. "Send the bouquet up to the room. Now."
..
David was standing by the car, his posture perfect. He opened the back door for Meera, who hopped in with her plushie. Mark did something no one expected: he opened the passenger door for Win himself, waiting until he was settled before taking the driver's seat.
Meera leaned forward, her face pressed against the window. "Uncle David... why are you not coming with us?"
Hearing Meera's plea, Mark looked at David and signaled him to join them. Meera started clapping happily, the sound echoing in the car. This was entirely new to Win; this cozy, thick feeling of being wrapped around with innocent and pure-hearted people. He felt a lump in his throat, a smile spreading across his face as he held back tears of happiness.
Mark noticed the shimmer in Win's eyes through the rearview mirror and asked, concern sharpening his tone, "What happened? Are you not feeling well?"
Win was about to speak, his voice caught in the emotion, but David interrupted. "Mark… you two sit in the back and let me drive for you. You should be with him."
Win looked at Mark, then at the open road, and said politely, "Can you please let me explain?" They both went silent, giving him their full attention. "Seeing Meera this excited... it just gave me happy tears. I've never seen someone so happy just to be together." He looked back at Meera. She was playing with her plushie—so cute with her big eyes, red cheeks, and pouting habit, a stark contrast to the darkness Win had fled.
Seeing Win overwhelmed by such a simple joy, Mark smiled—not the cold, terrifying smile of the Master, but a soft, private one. He stayed in the driver's seat, wanting to be the one to carry his family. Meera looked at Win and smiled widely. "Brother Win... do you know, I never saw my brother drive. I don't think he's a good driver, but Uncle David is very good. He often drives me to school."
Win looked at Mark's steady hands on the steering wheel, then back at Meera. "Doesn't your brother drive you to school?"
"Not even once," she complained, crossing her small arms.
"Do you want me to be your driver, then?" Win asked, a playful glint entering his eyes.
Mark's eyebrows shot up as he glanced at Win, and Meera saw the silent challenge. She giggled, leaning in close. "But I don't think my brother will allow it. He's very bossy."
Win turned back and whispered to Meera, loud enough for Mark to hear, "We will make a scene if he won't allow it. We'll cry until he says yes."
Meera giggled loudly, the sound bright and musical. "Good idea, Brother Win! We'll make him crazy!"
David, now sitting in the back with Meera, after Mark insisted on driving, looked out the window to hide his own smile. He was happy to see them having fun. There was a time, long and dark, when no one dared to speak or even breathe loudly near the Master because he hated noise; he lived in a world of cold, silent calculations. But this noise—the laughter of a child and the soft voice of the man he loved—was surely a blessing to Mark's ears. It was the sound of a house finally becoming a home.
He looked at the way Mark's eyes softened every time they caught Win's gaze in the mirror.
Finally, he thought, his chest tightening with a rare emotion. Finally, the devil is becoming a man .
..
..
David and Daniel are twins, had known the Master for more than fifteen years; the three of them grew together like brothers bound by misfortune.
..
Master's mother, Mrs. Amelia Mathew, had brought them in when their parents died in a car accident. Their mother was Mrs. Amelia's friend, and in her heart, she couldn't leave them to the cold world.
But Master's father, Mr. Ethan, never liked any of them—not even his own flesh and blood. He only cared about money and sex; he treated everyone in his house like trash. The house always felt cold, smelling of stale expensive cigars and the bitter tension of Ethan's presence. He hated the children so much that he decided to exile all three abroad under the guise of studies. Mrs. Amelia pleaded to go with them, but Ethan refused, keeping her trapped in his cage.
..
David and Daniel were aware that Mark was not happy abroad. They thought leaving his mother alone with his devil father was the reason, but later they realized he harbored a strange, cold detachment. He studied day and night, his mind like a machine, earning first place in every subject. He never spoke to his parents. While David remained close to Mrs. Amelia, calling her secretively to hear her gentle voice, Mr. Ethan eventually discovered the calls and forbade David from ever contacting her again.
Mark was rude and stoic, his face a mask that never cracked into a smile. Yet, he was fiercely protective of David and Daniel. He tutored them with tireless patience, and whoever tried to mess with them was never spared. Mark was a loner until university, where he met Bryan. Mark never called him a friend, but Bryan was clingy, drawn to Mark because they shared a hometown. Bryan was the exact opposite of Mark; he was a burst of chaotic energy—naughty, always smiling, and flirtatious with everyone.
..
In their final year, Mrs. Amelia appeared abroad. She hadn't just followed them; she had escaped. They didn't recognize her at first. She was a ghost of her former self—sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, and collarbones that looked like they might break through her skin. The smell of expensive perfume was gone, replaced by the faint, clinical scent of exhaustion. She kept whispering, "Your father is a devil... Your father is a devil," her voice a hollow rattle.
The weight of the moment was heavy, but the urgency of her condition pulled them back to the present. There was no more time for silent tears; they gathered strength, their protective instincts sharpening as they hurried her toward the hospital, the gravity of the situation etched into every quickened step.
..
The hospital was a blur of white walls and the rhythmic, mocking beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. The doctor's words were heavy: "Her condition is not good; it is better she stay here." David and Daniel took shifts, their eyes red from weeping, but Mark would only visit briefly. He would place fresh, fragrant flowers on her nightstand—a sharp contrast to the smell of death—and leave without a word.
..
Six days later, her breathing became a struggle. The room was filled with the hiss of the oxygen tank for two days until she finally slipped away on the third. David and Daniel cried until their lungs ached. Bryan tried to comfort them, but Mark didn't shed a single tear. He stood like a statue, his dark eyes fixed on David and Daniel, his mind already churning with a dark, silent purpose.
..
Later at home, David collapsed into bed, too heartbroken to eat. In the middle of the night, he woke up to a dry throat. He found Daniel sitting in the hall, staring at nothing.
"Now we don't have any reason to stay here," David said, his voice cracking. "We should find something to do and somewhere to stay on our own. What do you think?"
"I will do as you say," Daniel replied, his voice a mere shadow.
..
In the morning, the air felt heavy with unspoken intent. Mark held a duffle bag, his knuckles white, and asked Daniel to follow him to the car. Daniel got confused when Mark slid into the driver's seat—a task he usually avoided. Mark's silence was deafening.
At the airport, Daniel panicked. "Where are we going? I need my passport!"
"I have brought it," Mark said, his voice low and dangerous. "Let's go... to our home."
The word "home" felt like a curse.
..
After landing, they took a cab directly to the estate. Mark's father was in the hall, the blue light of the TV flickering against his arrogant face. "Why have you come here?" he barked.
Without a word, Mark handed the bag to Daniel and leveled a punch so powerful it echoed in the room. Ethan fell unconscious instantly. Daniel's jaw dropped, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Mark moved with terrifying efficiency, tying Ethan to a chair. He retrieved a silenced gun from the bedroom, the cold metal glinting under the chandelier.
"What are you going to do, Mark? He is your father..."
Mark didn't answer. He sat across from the man he hated most.
When Ethan woke, his smirk was a jagged blade. "Did that bitch send you? I heard she died. Are you a hero now, after ignoring her all your life?" He laughed, a crazed, ugly sound.
Mark sighed, his internal monologue a dark storm. I never cared for her, he thought, but you stole the only peace these two had. Aloud, he said, "I never considered myself a hero. I didn't care for her then, and I don't care now."
"Then why come back?" Ethan chuckled. "You're as stupid as her."
"You are wrong," Mark said, his voice dropping to a whisper as he picked up the gun. "I came all the way here to kill you."
Ethan's bravado shattered. He began to babble, his voice high and thin. "Are you going to kill me? She cheated! I don't even know if you're mine! But I am sure, child like you.. can't be my son, and I am not your father, I had nothing to do with David and Dan—"
"Shut up!" Mark roared. "I don't care about your blood or your lies."
"Then why?" Ethan was shaking now, the smell of fear filling the air.
"You made David and Daniel cry."
Mark stood up, circling Ethan like a predator. "I asked you not to send us away; you didn't listen. I left things behind you can't imagine... but I forgave you. You separated them from my mother; I forgave you. But when you made them cry crazily... how can I forgive you?"
He pressed the cold barrel to Ethan's temple.
"You're killing your father!"
"Didn't you say you weren't my father?"
"For these bastards—"
Banggggg.
The silenced shot was a dull thud. Mark walked away, leaving Daniel in a state of paralysis, his footsteps heavy and final on the expensive hardwood floor. He set the gun down on the velvet sofa with a dull thud—a sound that seemed to echo in the silent house, vibrating through the floorboards. "Let's go," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as cold as the steel he had just set down.
..
They didn't speak a single word on the long journey back. The air in the car was thick with the metallic, biting scent of gunpowder that still clung to Mark's clothes. Daniel sat paralyzed, his fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles were white. His throat felt like it was filled with sand; he was so tight with shock that he couldn't even swallow a drop of water. His mind kept replaying the image of the gun to Ethan's head—the way the silencer had looked against the gray hair of the man who had raised them.
Mark reached into a bag and handed Daniel a wrapped sandwich. Daniel shook his head, his stomach twisting into knots. Mark didn't look at him; instead, he began unwrapping the plastic with his one hand and other palming on wheels, the crinkling sound piercingly loud in the dead silence of the moving car.
"Daniel... I really want you both to stay beside me," Mark said quietly, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. "And I know... killing my father was wrong."
Daniel interrupted him, his voice finally finding its strength, though it came out as a ragged whisper. "You were not wrong. You did a good thing. I am only shocked because I didn't know you would be the one to do it yourself." Daniel looked at Mark's profile in the dim dashboard light. He realized then that the boy he grew up with was gone.
..