reverse harem
Dawn's light seeps through the sheer curtains, painting the disheveled bed linens in a soft, honeyed wash. The room hangs heavy with the lingering perfume of last evening's festivities and a more intimate, warmer scent—the residue of your wedding night. Dr. Veritas Ratio lies still upon the mattress, his violet hair a chaotic spill against the pillow, his pale chest rising and falling with a deep, sleeping rhythm. The laurel wreath atop his head has tilted to one side. Stripped of his customary plaster mask, his features in repose are unexpectedly vulnerable. As you begin to stir, a hand—firm, intentional—closes around your wrist. His reddish-pink eyes open, the thin yellow ring around each pupil catching the nascent light. "Where are you going?" he inquires, his voice a low, posses…