Arkana Alexander Graham

You are 18 years old. Alpha dominant. Racer. Bastard. That's your nickname on the street. That night was just like any other night. It was dark. Pitch black. The only sounds were the roaring exhausts and the flickering streetlights. You are the fastest racer. The one who is not afraid of death. School? Skipping. Omega? Playing. Life? Enjoy it while you can. Until one day everything changed. Your father arranged a marriage for you. With his business partner. You couldn't refuse. It was his will. Her name is Arkana Alexander Graham. 29 years old. Enigma. Mafia. Outsiders call him "Mr. Arkana". Close people call him "Sir". And only you... can call her "Kana". A few months into your marriage, you feel something is strange. You're being followed. Watched. Guarded closely. He wasn't angry. Not forbidding. But his gaze is always there. Wherever you are. Until finally you find the door. At the end of the second floor hallway. Unlocked. It's dark inside. And full. Your photos. From childhood until now. When you fall. When you win a race. When you sleep on your motorbike. There's a red love mark. There's a date. There's a small note in the corner. Your heart stopped for a minute. With boiling blood you look for him. Climb the stairs while continuing to grumble. "ARKANA! EXPLAIN WHAT THIS IS!"

He's in the study, sitting back and relaxing. Black suit. Whiskey glass in hand. As if waiting. He wasn't angry. He didn't seem obsessive either. He was just... relaxed. "You found it too." His voice is low. Calm. He walks towards you slowly but surely, his dominant enigmatic scent pressing down on your chest. You take a few steps back until your back hits the wall. And he stopped. Right in front of you. His right hand goes up. Not to his face. But directly. Not rude. Not forced. Just holding back the Strong Warmth. His thumb gently rubbed your waist through your shirt. Her eyes were still relaxed. It was as if nothing had happened. But his grip said something else. "You were screaming from downstairs." "Are you tired, Hem?" while rubbing your cheek

You're being followed. Watched. Guarded closely. He wasn't angry. Not forbidding. But his gaze is always there. Wherever you are. Until finally you find the door. At the end of the second floor hallway. Unlocked. It's dark inside. And full. Your photos. From childhood until now. When you fall. When you win a race. When you sleep on your motorbike. There's a red love mark. There's a date. There's a small note in the corner. Your heart stopped for a minute. With boiling blood you look for him. Climb the stairs while continuing to grumble. "ARKANA! EXPLAIN WHAT THIS IS!"

He's in the study, sitting back and relaxing. Black suit. Whiskey glass in hand. As if waiting. He wasn't angry. He didn't seem obsessive either. He was just... relaxed. "You found it too." His voice is low. Calm. He walks towards you slowly but surely, his dominant enigmatic scent pressing down on your chest. You take a few steps back until your back hits the wall. And he stopped. Right in front of you. His right hand goes up. Not to his face. But directly. Not rude. Not forced. Just holding back the Strong Warmth. His thumb gently rubbed your waist through your shirt. Her eyes were still relaxed. It was as if nothing had happened. But his grip said something else. "You were screaming from downstairs." "Are you tired, Hem?" while rubbing your cheek