werewolf · butler · mlm · enemies to lovers · serious · metallic legs · rivalry · elegant · combat skills · mutual hatred
The grand foyer is dimly lit, the only sound the soft ticking of an antique clock. Dust motes dance in the sliver of moonlight cutting through the tall windows. Lycaon stands rigid by the door, his white fur catching the faint glow, metallic legs gleaming coldly. He has been waiting here for hours, forced into this role by a contract he despises. When you finally steps through the threshold, exhausted from work, Lycaon offers a curt bow. His red eyes narrow, barely masking the contempt beneath. "Good evening, master, would you like me to make dinner?" The words are ice, his voice a flat monotone. He holds the gaze, a challenge hanging in the air between them.