Beneath His Rule (BL)

The quiet rustle of papers and low murmurs of voices filled the Argent estate's grand library. Outside, rain pattered softly against the towering windows, streaking the glass with silver trails that matched the storm brewing in Genesis’s chest. He sat with one leg crossed over the other, his shoulder-length hair falling like a curtain over his face as he glared at his father, Lionel Argent, who was seated behind a massive oak desk. “I’m not marrying him.” His father didn’t even look up. His pen scratched steadily over parchment, the dismissal infuriatingly obvious. Genesis leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk as he tilted his head mockingly. “Did you even heard me father? I said I’m not marrying that—” “You’ll do as you’re told,” Lionel interrupted, his voice calm yet edged with the kind of finality that dared anyone to argue. Genesis let out a harsh laugh, sitting back and throwing his arms over the chair. “Oh, right. Because that’s what I’ve always done—dutiful little Genesis, following orders.” Lionel sighed, setting the pen down and finally looking at his son. His gaze was a mirror of the one Genesis had inherited but carried the weight of decades of calculated ruthlessness. “This isn’t about you Genesis. It’s about this family. The Blackwoods have the kind of power that could crush us if we aren’t careful. This marriage ensures we survive.” Genesis sneered. “Survive? You mean grovel.” “If groveling means keeping our empire intact, then so be it,” Lionel snapped. He leaned forward, the harsh lines of his face shadowed in the dim light. “You’re an Argent. Act like one. Sacrifice is the price of power.” For a moment, Genesis said nothing, his mind racing with a thousand ways to escape this suffocating reality. The name Cleo Blackwood alone was enough to make his skin crawl. They hadn’t seen each other since high school, but the memories were sharp enough to sting. Genesis could still picture Cleo’s cold gray eyes watching him like a predator sizing up its prey, always a step ahead, always unshakable. The sound of his father’s chair creaking broke his thoughts. Lionel stood, towering over him. “You’ll marry Cleo. You’ll play your part. And you’ll do it without complaint. Do I make myself clear?” Genesis rose slowly, his movements deliberate as he met his father’s gaze. His voice was low, venomous. “Crystal.” The tension between them was palpable, but Lionel didn’t waver. Genesis turned sharply, his boots clicking against the floor as he strode toward the door. “Oh, and Dear,” Lionel called after him. “Wear your hair properly. We’re not savages.” Genesis paused in the doorway, running a hand through his layered locks. “Maybe I’ll wear it extra wild then, just for that iceberg.” ___________ Genesis Argent tightened his grip on the polished armrest of the limousine as it rolled to a stop in front of the Blackwood estate. The towering mansion loomed like a dark fortress against the evening sky, its sharp spires cutting through the clouds, casting a shadow over the land. Genesis’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the estate. It was fitting. Cold, unwelcoming, and designed to remind everyone of the power—much like the family who resided inside. Today was the day he would be formally introduced as the fiancé of Cleiorvin Blackwood to High Society, during the grand anniversary gathering hosted by the man's esteemed grandparents. And as the most sought-after and highly valued omega of this time, it served as a clear warning to others—a declaration of possession. “Sir, we’ve arrived,” the driver’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened his back, adjusting the lapels of his deep green suit. It was a small, rebellious act—an attempt to defy the Blackwood tradition of somber black. But he knew it was futile; this wasn’t a marriage—it was a transaction, a takeover wrapped in gold ribbons. This situation infuriates him the most. The car door opened, and Genesis stepped out, inhaling the crisp air. The scent of rain-soaked earth lingered in the breeze, but it was not enough to mask the tension in his chest. As he made his way toward the imposing double doors, his heart raced with anticipation—both dread and curiosity. The night ahead was bound to be full of games he never agreed to play. As he neared the entrance, the double doors swung open, revealing Cleorvin Blackwood standing in the threshold, his tall, broad frame casting a long shadow over the marble steps. Even from this distance, Genesis could feel the gravity of Cleo’s presence, the sharpness of his cold gray eyes that always seemed to pierce right through him. Genesis had seen pictures of him before—tall, broad-shouldered, with a sharp jawline that looked as if it had been chiseled from stone—but none of them captured the overwhelming intensity of his presence in person. He remembered him from their teenage years, though back then, Cleiorvin was more reserved, a figure who loomed in the shadows with quiet authority. They hadn’t crossed paths as adults until now, and the man standing before him seemed to carry an even heavier air of command, far removed from the boy Genesis once thought he knew. “Genesis Argent,” Cleo said, his deep voice smooth but utterly devoid of warmth. Genesis ignored the urge to roll his eyes as his omega instincts started screaming at him to submit. Instead, he grinned as he held his ground, meeting Cleo’s gaze with a defiant tilt of his chin. “Cleiorvin Blackwood.” The two of them stood there for a moment, neither moving, as the weight of their families’ expectations hung between them like an invisible chain. Cleo's sharp eyes assessed him coldly, the silence stretched out just long enough to feel uncomfortable. “You’re late,” Cleo finally remarked, his voice an icy monotone. “I didn’t realize this was a punctuality contest,” Genesis shot back, brushing past Cleo to step into the mansion without a second thought. The Blackwood estate’s interior was just as cold as its owner. Marble floors gleamed under the golden light of chandeliers, dark wood panels absorbed the light, and walls lined with portraits of Blackwood ancestors stared down at him in judgment. Cleo followed him, his footsteps deliberate and measured. “You’ll find that I value order,” Cleo said, his tone carrying the weight of an Alpha’s authority. “Something you’ll need to learn if we’re going to make this arrangement work.” Genesis turned, and walked back at him, closing their distance with a smirk forming on his lips. “Oh? then let’s get one thing straight. I’m not here to ‘learn.’ I’m here because my family thought handing me over like a bargaining chip was the best way to save face. Don’t mistake that for obedience.” Cleo’s gaze didn’t falter. He didn’t even blink. After a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, but only slightly—not a smile, but something close. “Obedience is earned, not demanded,” he replied. “You’ll understand that soon enough.” Genesis rolled his eyes as a response. As the tension crackled between them like static, their egos clashing with an almost palpable force. Genesis hated how Cleo’s calm demeanor seemed to unsettle him, like Cleo already knew how the game would end before it even began. The sounds of a celebration filled the air, breaking the moment of stillness between them. The grand ballroom beckoned with its music, laughter, and clinking glasses—a far cry from the hostile environment they were creating. Cleo, ever the image of perfection, didn’t skip a beat, turning to lead Genesis into the heart of the estate where their families and the Blackwood elites had gathered. Inside, the grandeur was suffocating. Chandeliers hung above them, casting golden light over the marble floors, and classical music played softly in the background, barely masking the noise of the well-dressed guests in conversation. He felt like gagging, hating the mixed smell of an alpha, beta, and omega pheromones in the air. Genesis’s sharp eyes darted around, taking it all in—every detail, every potential escape route. And then again, his gaze landed on him. Cleo stood at the center of a group of men, his stature commanding, his presence magnetic even from a distance. The tailored suit he wore clung perfectly to his tall, broad frame, and his sharp features seemed carved from stone. But it wasn’t just Cleo’s physicality that commanded attention—it was the cold, piercing gray eyes that seemed to follow him, assess him. Their gazes locked, and for a moment, everything else faded. The music, the laughter, the voices—they all blurred as Cleo’s eyes held his. That familiar coldness. That unyielding force. Genesis could feel it. It was as if Cleo was measuring him, deciding how to engage with him, already knowing the terms of the game. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Cleo broke the moment first, stepping away from the men and making his way toward Genesis with the same deliberate calm that Genesis had come to expect. As he approached, he straightened the cuff of his sleeve, his expression unreadable. “Blackwood,” Genesis greeted him, voice dripping with mockery, breaking the tension as he forced a smirk to his lips. “Still as charming as ever, I see.” Cleo’s gaze swept over him, unbothered by the mockery. “Still as insufferable as I remember,” he replied, his voice as cold as ever. “Aw, you remembered me,” Genesis said, a playful tilt of his head making his hair fall over his shoulder. “I’m touched.” There was a beat of silence, Cleo’s gaze lingering on Genesis for a fraction longer than necessary. Genesis’s smirk widened, though something in his chest tightened. It wasn’t fear, but a strange mix of defiance. Cleo’s tone carried an undeniable authority, the weight of his Alpha status clear in his words. But Genesis was no stranger to power struggles. The air between them hummed with tension, thick enough to make it hard to breathe. Genesis wasn’t sure if he was exhilarated or annoyed, but one thing was certain: Cleo Blackwood was not going to make this easy. And neither was he. As Cleo turned away, signaling for Genesis to follow, the weight of the evening pressed down on him. The grand celebration, the expectations, the watchful eyes of their families—it all felt like a cage closing in around him. But Genesis was no stranger to cages. Not now. Not ever. ______________ The wedding ceremony itself was brief and devoid of emotion, just like Cleo. The priest’s words were a blur as Genesis stood at the altar, his pulse thrumming in his ears, with the weight of every gaze in the room pressing down on him. Cleo was beside him, majestic as ever, with his expression unreadable, and his presence commanding. When it came time to exchange vows, Cleo’s gaze locked onto his, and for a moment, Genesis forgot to breathe. “I, Cleo Blackwood, take you, Genesis Argent…” Cleo’s voice was steady, his tone almost mocking, as if he knew exactly how much Genesis despised this. “…to honor and protect, for better or worse.” Genesis clenched his fists, his turn arriving. His voice was steady, though his chest burned with defiance. "I, Genesis Argent, take you, Cleo Blackwood…” He forced a smirk as he added, “…to tolerate and outlast, for better or worse.” The priest hesitated, but neither of them corrected him. When Cleo slid the ring onto Genesis’s finger, his touch lingered for just a second too long. Genesis refused to look at him, knowing he wouldn’t like what he saw there—dominance, control, and a challenge he wasn’t ready to face.