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When little Perseus looked back for the tenth time, his blue eyes scanning every unfamiliar face in the village fair with growing concern, Aiolos stopped. Until then, he had pretended not to notice the boy's nervousness. He had let the child experience the world beyond the Sanctuary’s walls — a small gesture of freedom, a well-deserved break after weeks of intense training. But Perseus' immature cosmos was beginning to stir, timidly probing the surroundings, as if expecting to feel his master’s cosmo energy at any moment.
Aiolos sighed. It was time to step in.
He knelt before the boy, ignoring the harsh heat of the cobblestones and the curious glances of a few village women balancing fruit baskets. He placed his large hands on Perseus’ tense shoulders — firm, but gentle.
— Perseus... — he began, with that calm voice that made even the most impulsive Saints hesitate. — If you don’t learn to relax while you’re still young, you’ll end up with heart problems worse than those of the legendary Scorpio Kardia.
The child frowned, then looked away with a weary sigh, as if summoning divine patience. The gesture was so familiar that Aiolos almost smiled. Perseus was becoming a living copy of his master — and not just in strict discipline. That mix of indignation and dutiful resolve was Shura’s trademark.
— We left without Master Shura’s permission — the boy whispered, trying to keep his composure. — We were supposed to be following the training routine he left before going on his mission. He’s going to be furious!
Aiolos raised a golden eyebrow, amused by the boy’s seriousness.
— If you don’t tell him... I won’t tell him either. — He offered, in a conspiratorial tone, as if they were sharing a secret between seasoned Saints.
Perseus’ expression wavered between shock and moral doubt.
— Look how your fellow trainees are enjoying themselves. — The Grand Master gestured with his chin toward a nearby game stall.
Two of the five young trainees who had been under Shura’s tutelage for the past four months were laughing loudly as they tried to hit wooden targets with darts. One missed completely, and the dart landed in the awning’s frame, drawing laughter from the vendor. The other celebrated a bullseye with an exaggerated pose, clearly mimicking Milo.
— They don’t know Master Shura well yet — Perseus remarked, lowering his voice like he was revealing a state secret. — They have no idea how severe the punishment will be when he finds out.
— Saying it like that makes Shu sound evil... — Aiolos teased, a crooked smile playing on his lips.
Perseus glanced sideways at him. His head turned slowly, as if trying to process not just the audacity of the comment, but the nickname itself.
“Shu.”
It was nearly an insult.
The boy wrinkled his nose, clearly uncomfortable. To him, referring to Capricorn Shura with such informality was like playing with fire — without cosmo protection. It still felt strange to see someone survive after saying something like that out loud.
But he said nothing.
At eight years old, Perseus already understood many things. Among them, that a Saint of Aiolos’ rank could say the most ridiculous things — and be praised for it.
Aiolos noticed the expression and chuckled softly, placing a hand on the boy’s head and lightly ruffling his spiky hair.
— One day, Perseus... you’ll understand that even the most feared Saints are just men trying to keep order. And sometimes, order needs a little chaos to breathe.
— Chaos... — the boy repeated, skeptical. — That sounds like something Master Milo would say.
Aiolos raised his eyebrows.
— Look at that, he’s making jokes now.
Perseus looked away but couldn’t hide a faint corner smile.
— Still, Master Shura won’t be pleased...
— He won’t. — Aiolos confirmed, standing up. — But that’s where the ancient art of not saying anything comes in. We do a few extra jumps tomorrow morning and he won’t suspect a thing.
— And if he does?
— Then... — Aiolos paused dramatically, crossing his arms. — Then we blame the other trainees. They already look more guilty anyway.
— That’s very unethical. — Perseus replied, scandalized.
— That’s why I’m the Grand Master. I’m above ethics. — Aiolos declared with a triumphant grin, as if he had just won a war without unsheathing his sword.
The boy shook his head, laughing quietly, defeated.
Even though his sense of duty was always on high alert, Perseus was learning — slowly — that boldness, joy, and even lightness... were also part of a Saint’s strength.
Maybe Master Aiolos was right...
... Or maybe not!
Hours later, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself for easing the harsh training life of those brats, Aiolos strolled leisurely through the Sanctuary corridors. He was in a good mood, whistling an old tune from his childhood that no one but Aiolia would ever recognize. Each step felt lighter than the last.
Of course, he knew he had technically broken protocol. But he also knew that if he waited for the “perfect moment” to teach the trainees certain human lessons, he’d grow old and gray before it ever came.
Along the way, he noticed two or three sideways glances. A couple of low-ranking soldiers and a Silver Saint barely lifted his chin, but failed to hide the judgment in his eyes.
Aiolos merely raised an eyebrow, not slowing his pace.
“They might judge me, but they sure won’t be the ones telling Shura.”
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. After all, no one dared deliver bad news to the Capricorn Saint — especially the kind involving “brats” smiling on a training day.
He climbed the last few steps with relaxed strides and pushed open the door to his office with his shoulder, distracted, his thoughts still on the children's laughter and the poorly thrown darts at the fair.
And then he froze.
The office wasn’t empty.
Shura was there.
Sitting in his chair with the authority of a king passing judgment — or worse: like an ancient deity deciding between mercy and wrath. Legs stretched out in feigned casualness — and fingers drumming lightly on the wooden armrest. The kind of drumming that made Saints of every rank reconsider all their life choices.
Aiolos froze for a second. His heart skipped — not just in surprise.
But in joy. In relief. In… excitement.
And yes, a little fear too. Because the look Shura gave him wasn’t exactly warm.
— Well now… — Aiolos cleared his throat, straightening up as if he could pretend the scene wasn’t deeply uncomfortable. — You’re back early from your mission. What a miracle.
Shura didn’t respond immediately. He just stared at him — long and heavy seconds — as if debating whether to start with a lecture, a sarcastic remark, or a punch to the jaw.
— I’m back… — he said at last, his voice low and sharp like the blade he carried on his arm. He was deadly serious. — And imagine my pleasant surprise when I visited my training field and found it completely empty. I even tried to stay optimistic. I thought: unlike my trainees, surely my partner must have some sense of responsibility…
— Shura… — Aiolos tried to argue, his voice carrying a note of regret.
— Silence. — The command came firm, with no softening. It sounded as though he wasn’t speaking to the Grand Master of the Sanctuary, but to some random subordinate.
Aiolos hesitated. It was rare to see him intimidated — except when it came to Shura. With him, all masks fell.
— Shura, please. I know you had a schedule, but they’re just kids... A little fun, a break… — he tried to explain, offering a peacekeeping smile, trying to soften the tension.
— I’m their master, — Shura cut in, his tone ice-cold. — Even if you're the Grand Master of the Sanctuary, the final word on how they train, and at what pace, is mine. Not to mention you promised me, Aiolos — no more running from your responsibilities.
The last sentence hit deeper.
Aiolos sighed and, for the first time that afternoon, lowered his gaze.
— I’m sorry, — he murmured, sincerely.
Shura raised an eyebrow. An uncomfortable silence settled before he finally spoke.
— Sorry? That’s all you have to say? — The words slipped from his lips laced with restrained, refined anger. Almost ironic. — I should ban you from Capricorn’s bed for the next month.
Aiolos looked up, stunned by the suggested punishment. His heart pounded, the fear of losing him more painful than any physical punishment.
— Shura… don’t say that, — he pleaded, almost in a whisper. — If I made a mistake, I’m willing to make it right.
Shura watched him in silence. His eyes narrowed, assessing every movement, every word.
— You think lowering your head and muttering “sorry” is enough to fix everything? — he asked. — You think you can go play Grand Master out there, and then waltz back to me whenever you want with that calm... and seductive air?
The word hung in the air — heavy and intimate.
Aiolos swallowed hard.
— I wasn’t playing at anything, Shura… I just wanted to give them something we never had. A childhood. A good memory.
For a brief second, Shura’s expression faltered. But not enough.
— Then accept the consequences of your actions, — he said, pressing a finger under Aiolos’ chin. — Take off that ridiculous cape and kneel like someone who knows his place.
Aiolos trembled — with anticipation for what was to come. And secretly, he had longed for this ever since the first time Shura, with hard eyes and an uncompromising tone, had promised to punish him if he failed to honor the responsibilities of being Grand Master.
It wasn't that he disliked the intimacy they shared—far from it; sex between them was, in fact, a dream come true. But part of Aiolos longed to feel, in his own body, that stern, unforgiving side of Shura that dominated training grounds and battlefields. He wanted to experience the weight of Capricorn's authority, unfiltered, uncompromising.
With silent reverence, the Grand Master unbuttoned his ceremonial cloak and let it slip from his shoulders, revealing only a pair of briefs underneath — the kind of boldness that always got under Shura’s skin. Then he dropped to his knees, without lowering his gaze, deliberately trying to provoke the dominant side of his partner.
Shura watched him for a few seconds, expressionless as a marble statue. But behind that steady gaze, there was something more — something warm, hungry, and restrained.
_ Come. — he ordered, without raising his voice, but with enough authority to make the air around him vibrate and Aiolos' body move automatically, but before he got up again, Shura added: _ Crawling!
And Aiolos obeyed — fully aroused by the humiliation of the situation.
With slow, deliberate movements, he crawled forward on his knees, just as he’d been ordered. For Shura, he would cross the entire Sanctuary on all fours with a collar around his neck, if that’s what he demanded. Because in that moment, under that stern and proud gaze, Aiolos found something no battlefield had ever given him: absolute surrender.
When Aiolos finally reached the chair where Shura waited, he leaned in and brushed his face against the Capricorn Saint’s leg, feeling the rough fabric against his skin. It was a gesture of submission — silent, reverent, and charged with restrained desire.
Shura’s strong fingers slid through Aiolos’ dark blond hair in a brief caress… before closing into a firm, almost possessive grip.
“Not that easy, Sagittarius,” he murmured, his voice laced with authority — and something darker.
The sound that escaped Aiolos was a trembling sigh — something between a moan and a silent confession. He didn’t want easy. He never had.
“How may I please you, my lord?” Aiolos asked, his voice hoarse, strained by the sting at his scalp.
Shura tilted his head slightly, narrow eyes assessing every nuance of that submission.
“Do you really want to be good?” he asked, his tone low and provocative.
“I... do,” Aiolos replied without hesitation.
“Then prove it,” Shura ordered, his fingers slowly descending to the zipper of his own pants, making it clear what he expected.
“Use that mouth... for something more useful than pathetic excuses.”
Aiolos didn’t look away. Even on his knees, he held his expression of reverence, eyes gleaming with hunger. With deliberate slowness, he brought his hands to Shura’s waist and rested them there, waiting for permission.
Shura responded with a slight tilt of his chin—a subtle gesture, but full of dominance. That was enough. Aiolos moved closer, his face now pressed against the Capricorn Saint's manhood, feeling the heat of his skin through the already open fabric. Their breaths were heavy in the air thick with excitement. When he finally enveloped him with his mouth, he did so with devotion and desperation, as if redeeming every second of his companion's absence with that silent surrender. But Shura would not accept gentle penances. Not anymore...
His hand tangled in her pale hair again and pulled her firmly downward, guiding the rhythm, imposing depth. "Less prayers and more action, Great Master," he hissed through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched in restraint. Aiolos struggled to keep the rhythm, swallowing pain and pleasure in equal parts. His eyes watered, but he didn't stop. Shura was demanding, rough, almost cruel—and yet, the touch of his heavy hand on the back of her neck carried a strange, veiled gentleness, as if the punishment were also being meted out.
Between deep thrusts and harsh words, the atmosphere was reduced to ragged breathing, Aiolos's silent devotion, and Shura's hard gaze, which never lost control for a second. "So good for me," Shura murmured between heavy breaths, in pure delight.
Each thrust grew deeper, more demanding, causing Aiolos’ throat to tighten in response to the relentless advance, muffled moans escaping involuntarily—a mix of submission and surrender. Occasionally, he choked for a moment, yet he did not pull away.
Shura seemed intoxicated by the sight, by the heat, by the power of seeing the once immaculate Sagittarius Knight on his knees, completely at his mercy.
But just when Aiolos thought Shura’s climax would come then and there, swallowed with the same devotion with which he served him, he was abruptly pulled away.
A sharp tug at his hair yanked him from his position. The pain radiated fiercely across his scalp, and he let out a surprised gasp. His breathing came in gasps, his face wet with saliva and pre-cum, eyes fogged with desire and confusion.
“Shura?” Aiolos called out, stunned. His voice was weak, hoarse, almost hesitant. Had he done something wrong?
But Shura just stared at him. A different look — hungry, intense, heavy with a depth that the Sagittarius Knight couldn’t immediately decipher. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t ordinary desire. It was something more... something that made his stomach twist.
“Tonight, I want it different,” Shura finally said, his tone deep and firm.
Aiolos swallowed hard. Deep down, he had always known this day would come.
During the six months of their relationship, Shura had allowed himself to be dominated with surprising surrender. It always seemed like a voluntary concession, a choice. But something in him — his posture, his presence, even the way he entered a battlefield — screamed authority. Dominance. It was only a matter of time before he wanted to reverse the roles.
Aiolos shivered—not from fear—though a part of him felt vulnerable—but from genuine apprehension. Before Shura, when he was still too young and the Sagittarius knight was distracted by other bodies, he had tried the submissive role. Once, twice. And the memories of those attempts were far from pleasant.
But Shura was not “other bodies.”
And that simple, clear, inevitable thought made him hesitate for less time than he expected.
Shura slowly closed the distance between their faces, like a predator already knowing the prey would not run. His fingers touched Aiolos’ chin with a gentleness that contrasted with the firmness of his gaze.
“Do you trust me?” he asked, almost in a whisper.
Aiolos answered with only a brief nod. His heart racing, senses alert.
Maybe he wasn’t ready. But for Shura… maybe he wanted to try.
“Stand up,” Shura ordered, his tone now firm, leaving no room for questions.
Aiolos obeyed, legs trembling—not only from the time spent kneeling but from the avalanche of sensations overwhelming him: apprehension, desire, anticipation...
“Bend over the table.”
The Sagittarius took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure as he turned toward the nearby table. It was a sturdy piece of dark wood, solid like the tone of voice now guiding him.
With his hands splayed on the cold surface, Aiolos bent his torso, feeling his bare skin shiver from the contact. His heart pounded so loudly he could barely hear anything else.
Shura said nothing at first. He simply approached slowly, his presence like a warm tide behind him. When his hands settled on Aiolos’ hips, the touch was surprisingly gentle — as if testing the limits before crossing them.
“Still with me?” he asked, his mouth brushing against Aiolos’ ear.
“Yes...” Aiolos replied, a whisper that barely felt like his own.
He didn’t know what to expect. He only knew he trusted. Trusted Shura more than he trusted himself.
The tension in the air was almost tangible. And caught between the fear of the unknown and the restless curiosity dancing beneath his skin, Aiolos closed his eyes. Because yes, this was new. Challenging. But maybe — just maybe — it was exactly what he needed.
The sound of the bottom drawer opening made Aiolos flinch.
“Oh, Zeus... He found it!” he thought, his face flushing red in an instant.
Shura placed a small bottle on the table, right in front of Aiolos. Lubricant.
“What does this mean?” he asked, voice low but laced with restrained jealousy. “Were you planning to betray me?”
Aiolos swallowed hard, his entire body on high alert.
“N-no, sir...” he murmured, shrinking under a gaze he didn’t even need to see to know how intense it was.
Shura leaned in closer, his warm breath against exposed skin.
“Then why was this here, when I never gave you permission to touch yourself in this office?”
Aiolos shut his eyes for a moment, searching for the courage to speak the truth.
“It’s for when I... miss you during your missions,” he whispered, barely audible. “To touch myself... thinking of you.”
The silence that followed felt like it stretched for ages. Shura didn’t reply right away, as if weighing the worth of every word spoken.
“So you think you have the right…” he said at last, voice dangerously calm, “to satisfy yourself, alone, in a place where anyone could walk in and see what belongs to me?”
Aiolos’ heart skipped a beat.
“Shit... wrong answer.”
He didn’t have time to explain. A sharp smack echoed through the room, and the impact of Shura’s firm hand against his ass made him arch his back and hold his breath.
He bit his lip, fighting the urge to moan.
“Forgive me...” Aiolos whispered, voice thick with desire — he had liked the slap.
Shura let out a low sigh, heavy with frustration.
— “That word again...” — he muttered with disdain, his fingers tracing the exposed line of Aiolos’ back. — “Forgiveness... I hate apologies — especially flimsy ones. I much prefer acts of repentance.”
Before the other could react, another slap came — harder, more precise, and searing — this time to his left cheek. The sound echoed through the silence of the room.
— “Shura!” — Aiolos gasped, instinctively trying to push himself up from his bent position over the desk.
But he didn’t get far. Shura’s firm hand settled on the back of his neck with calculated weight, holding him in place with silent authority.
— “Master,” he corrected, his deep voice sliding out like an undeniable command. — “Master Shura.”
Aiolos took a deep breath, his cheek pressed against the cold wood of the desk, and murmured with a fresh wave of submission:
— “Master Shura...”
Shura leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing the curve of Aiolos’ ear.
— “Buen chico,” he praised in a velvet tone, almost dragging the words with the satisfaction of dominance. The sound of Spanish — unexpected — hit with the force of a slow-burning thrill. Aiolos’ skin reacted instantly, breaking out in goosebumps from his nape to his lower back.
It was the first time he had heard Shura speak in his native tongue — and the impact was visceral.
— “Let’s get rid of this inconvenient piece of cloth,” Shura added with no rush, savoring every second of his control.
In a movement as precise as it was merciless, Shura’s fingers tore through Aiolos’ underwear, ridding him of the last barrier between his bare skin and the inevitable, raw touch.
The air around them seemed heavier — charged with something unspeakably primal.
— “Spread your legs, Grand Master,” — he ordered, the title laced with subtle irony, as if it were nothing more than a meaningless formality given the position Aiolos now found himself in: vulnerable, exposed, and completely dominated.
The three seconds of hesitation from Sagittarius came at a steep price.
Shura was not a man known for his patience — especially not when his command wasn’t obeyed immediately. Without the slightest hesitation, one of his thighs slid between Aiolos’, forcing them apart with firm, unrelenting pressure.
— “I said: spread your legs.” — he repeated, voice low but edged with irritation. Impatience vibrated in every syllable.
The sharp snap of the reprimand cut through the air, and Aiolos, shaken from the haze of nerves and shame, finally reacted. Trembling, he adjusted himself atop the table, parting his legs as commanded.
— “Much better,” — Shura approved, his tone now more controlled, satisfied with the submission.
One heavy hand landed at the base of Aiolos’ spine, gripping with force, while the other slid between his cheeks, prying them apart with a slowness that bordered on cruel — as though he had all the time in the world to explore every inch. His fingers parted the flesh with calculated calm, brown eyes fixed on the view before him, observing.
— “I knew you’d end up like this,” — he murmured, more to himself than to the other. — “Poorly positioned, regretful… but ready. You do understand I’m going to ruin you, don’t you, Aiolos?”
His voice was deep and deliberate, more of a promise than a threat — a slow venom spilling down his spine.
Aiolos squeezed his eyes shut. He was gone — every cell in his body betrayed it, even as his mind screamed in resistance. There was no turning back.
— “I do, sir.” — His voice cracked.
It was enough. Before he could even finish his thought or take a deep breath, he felt Shura's thick finger—already coated in lubricant—invade him without warning.
"Zeus!" The cry escaped involuntarily, more from pure shock than pain. The touch had been precise, brutal, and yet meticulously calculated. The fingertip hit his prostate with almost surgical precision, sending a shiver down his spine. Shura let out a low, husky laugh, pleased with the reaction.
"So sensitive…" he murmured, bending slightly to observe closely the way Aiolos's body trembled, contracted, and at the same time begged for more. "You're really a virgin in that part, aren't you?"
Aiolos couldn't answer. The finger moved again, slow and deep. Then a second was inserted, without any ceremony, widening him firmly. The sensation was now uncomfortable—it ached and burned as Aiolos's body remembered, in detail, every previous failed attempt to reach this moment. But Shura… Shura had something the others didn't: pinpoint precision.
And every time Aiolos mustered the strength to ask him to stop, to pull back with his fingers… Shura found his prostate again. And pressed harder than before. As if he knew the exact seconds Aiolos's mind would falter and was ready to crush any doubt with pleasure.
"Master Shura…" Aiolos moaned, unsure whether to beg for mercy or to continue.
His body betrayed his mind. His breathing was heavy, his moans stifled, his hips beginning to involuntarily thrust against the fingers filling him.
"I'll show you what happens to those who keep secrets from me. Better breathe."
Shura withdrew his fingers with cruel slowness, eliciting an almost whimpering sound from Aiolos. His entire body pulsed with the impending orgasm, so close that his vision was already beginning to blur. Instinctively, he tried to push himself up a second time, seeking some kind of relief or control over his situation. But Shura's heavy hand pressed him back against the table, firm and authoritative. A sharp slap followed.
"Don't be insubordinate!" Shura's voice cut through the air, harsh, full of command.
"Master Shura, please..." Aiolos moaned, lost, vulnerable, his mind already filled with a haze of pleasure.
"No more fingers for you. You're ready," he declared, his voice deep, as if announcing a sentence.
Aiolos shivered. His entire body tensed, his muscles ready to resist—but there was no time. Something much larger took the space previously occupied by the fingers. The heat, the thickness, the invasion... It was intense, so intense it felt like it would tear him in half.
But the pain was brief.
Because soon Shura's glans met Aiolos's prostate with brutal precision. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. The pleasure hit him so violently that his body arched and then shook uncontrollably. He came right then and there, without any direct contact, without warning—an orgasm so overwhelming it left him on the verge of blackout, collapsing against the wood, his breath ragged, his entire body spasming.
"Fuck!" Shura moaned, his control slipping through his fingers for an instant, betrayed by Aiolos's near-lethal grip around him. His muscles screamed for the release he tried to delay, respecting the still-trembling body beneath him. But the urge to move, to take it all at once, was almost unbearable.
A full minute dragged by before the spasms subsided. Aiolos's tears had dried, but he still panted, surrendered and vulnerable on the table. Shura then grabbed his hair and pulled firmly, lifting him until his body arched back in a tense arch, the two of them still connected, deeply.
"Your master hasn't come yet," he murmured against his ear, his voice low and heavy. "Don't be selfish."
"I can't..." Aiolos groaned, his eyes watering, his exhausted body already at its limit.
"You can..." Shura whispered, like a dark promise, forcing one of Aiolos's legs onto the table, leaving only the tip of the other foot touching the floor, exposing him even further—not just physically, but also soulfully. The position was humiliating, vulnerable, and exactly what Aiolos had always imagined in his most forbidden moments. "You are one of the strongest Gold Saints in the Sanctuary. You can handle being pierced in every way possible."
The first thrust of Shura's cock was brutal. They both cried out—a mixture of pleasure and shock that echoed off the stone walls. The table creaked under the impact, threatening to give way.
Shura held Aiolos against her, her firm hand gripping his waist as if molding him to her own body. She began to move with more determination—each thrust was deep, driven with precision, designed to rip out everything Aiolos had. The table creaked beneath them, their thrusts causing it to slide a few inches across the stone floor with each violent thrust. Aiolos moaned brokenly, gripping the edges of the table as if they were his only anchor to reality.
Aiolos screamed, frantic, but Shura wouldn't silence him. He was finally overcome by the madness of what they were doing. His cosmos was spiraling out of control, crackling in the air like raw electricity. Any knight within a hundred meters, even if they didn't hear the outcry, would feel exactly what was happening there.
"So tight!" Shura growled, biting down hard on his shoulder, sinking his teeth in warning.
"Shura! Oh Zeus!" Aiolos screamed, his voice almost hoarse, his legs trembling.
"Just one more second..." Shura pleaded, breathless, thrusting even harder, mercilessly. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room.
The next orgasm didn't ask for permission. It caught them both together—wild, overwhelming. Aiolos arched, the cry faltering from his lips as Shura held him against her, her fingers clawing at his waist. The explosion of pleasure was accompanied by light, by the cosmos, by a surge of energy that reverberated like silent thunder within the temple.
And then, silence.
A dense, sweaty silence that said everything words couldn't. Their bodies, still pressed together, trembled with small, involuntary spasms, remnants of the overwhelming pleasure they had shared. Sweat mixed with their essences dripped down Aiolos's thighs, staining the table where sanity had been forgotten.
Shura didn’t move right away. He stayed inside him, arms wrapped around that broad torso, chest pressed against the back now marked with the scratches he himself had left behind. The sound of their ragged breaths filled the now-silent room, muffled only by the lingering hum of their cosmos.
It was Aioria’s outraged voice from the other side of the door that shattered the trance.
The poor Leo Saint, who was substituting for Mu in the office that week due to Saga’s leave, seemed to have witnessed more than he’d ever wanted. His voice thundered through the hallway:
— Shura, you bastard! — he roared, fury raw in his tone. — Next time you decide to use Excalibur on my brother, at least have the decency to do it in your own temple!
Aiolos froze. His heart pounded in a way that had nothing to do with lust. Panic, maybe. Mortification. Pure, unfiltered shame.
He turned his face slowly toward the door — his forehead still pressed to the cold wood of the desk — and let out a muffled groan:
— Oh, no...