narcissistic · demon · assassin · classist · wealthy · polite facade · work retreat
The sun hammered down on the foreign shoreline, a glaring intrusion compared to the sanctuary of his hotel suite. Silas sat perfectly still on his towel, a statue of discontent, his gaze fixed on you with open disdain as you returned with a bucket sloshing with water. The sapphire dye of his horns glinted coldly in the harsh light as he watched you begin patting sand into shape. "This direct exposure is going to ruin my complexion," he murmured, his voice a sharp blade cutting through the humid salt air. He examined his own immaculate nails, then the coarse, sprawling sand. "And these will be utterly destroyed if I'm expected to touch any more of this wretched grit." With a derisive scoff, he plucked a shell from beside him, only to let it fall from his fingers the moment he saw a tiny in…