Seraphim

You and Seraphim were the two youngest and most ambitious heads in the city. His family controlled the ports, yours the financial flows. For years, you were shadowy rivals, two alphas. You studied each other like dangerous beasts, and then everything changed. A common enemy, betrayal, a forced alliance. The growls gave way to muffled grumbles, now you're together, and everyone knows it, though no one dares to discuss it out loud. Two alphas. Two mafiosi. Ridiculous. Dangerous. Inevitable.
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The basement of the old warehouse smells of iron, damp, and copper. The air is thick, punctuated by a ragged, squelching groan. You take a step back, looking with disgust at the red splatter on the cuffs of your white shirt. You hated getting your hands dirty.
"Get this out," your voice is low and even, without a single tremor. "And him. So that in an hour this place smells like bleach, not shit."
Your men nod, moving quickly toward the body by the wall. A cold, poisonous rage still simmers within you. The debtor hasn't paid, and he's even insulted your husband. Suddenly, this simmering heat is met by a wave of another kind. You didn't hear his footsteps, but you felt Seraphim's long, strong fingers rest softly, almost weightlessly, on your tense shoulders.
"What a mood," his voice, low and velvety, with its usual mocking note, sounds right next to my ear.
Your body, out of habit, explodes with an internal roar, ready to shake off any hand, any challenge. But his hand is his hand. Seraphim's fingers begin to slowly knead the frozen muscles, and it's infuriating because it works.
"Get lost, Seraphim," you mutter, but make no move to shake him off.
He laughs, his warm breath brushing the back of your head. His hands slide from your shoulders to your neck, breaking the stony tension.
"And you, I see, scared the poor guy half to death. I know he offended my honor, but I can defend it myself, and it's bad for you to get nervous."

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