[BL]Hunted by the God of Destruction Chapter 113: Killed by fashion (1)

The attendants moved before Elis would start bickering with Vitor again. The first suit was already waiting on a padded hanger, shoes polished until Elias could see his own unimpressed reflection in them. He sighed, muttered sothing about execution by wardrobe, and shrugged out of his own jacket.

One of the staff reached as if to help, but Elias shot them a look over the rim of his glasses that froze them mid-gesture. "I’m not an invalid. I can dress myself."

From the armchair, Victor’s voice drifted like smoke. "Undress, you an." He was swirling a crystal tumbler with sothing amber, his face telling Elias to retort.

Elias let the jacket slide down his arms with deliberate slowness, as though every inch was a rebuttal. He tossed it onto the back of a chair, ignoring the way one of the attendants twitched like the garnt was too sacred to be treated so carelessly.

He didn’t bother looking at Victor. "And here I thought gods didn’t have to rely on cheap innuendo."

Victor tipped the glass toward his lips, raising a brow with a glint in his crimson eyes. "Who said it was cheap?" The faint curve at the corner of his mouth suggested he was enjoying himself far too much.

Elias unbuttoned his shirt, each click of the fastening sharp in the silence, and rolled his eyes. "You could’ve just asked to watch strip instead of staging a military parade of suits."

The attendants exchanged quick, nervous glances, clearly caught between duty and the sense that they’d wandered into sothing far more personal than they were being paid for.

Victor swirled the amber liquid again, the ice clinking faintly. "And rob myself of the pleasure of proving how well I know what looks good on you?" His tone was velvet, indulgent, and smug.

Elias shot him a look in the mirror, dry enough to burn, but kept his biting words behind his teeth. If they continued like this, they’d be trapped in that suite for a week before he even put on a sock. He sighed, turned, and held out a hand toward the nearest rack.

The attendants reacted instantly, sliding the first ensemble forward like presenting a weapon to its wielder. Charcoal grey, cut with severe precision, the kind of fabric that had a na Elias couldn’t bother to rember.

Elias slipped the shirt on first, fingers working the buttons without hurry. The fabric was cool against his skin, whispering with each shift of movent. He adjusted the collar, tugged the cuffs into place, and then reached for the trousers, every motion asured.

Behind him, Victor’s voice cut through the air. "Better already. You wear severity well."

Elias ignored him, stepping into the trousers and fastening them with a sharp snap of the clasp. He bent, laced the polished shoes, then straightened again, rolling his shoulders to settle the suit into place.

He caught his own reflection in the mirror, lean, sharp, glasses glinting beneath the light and for one dangerous mont even he had to admit it was a perfect fit. Which, of course, was the point.

Victor humd low, appreciation wrapped in arrogance. "I was right. That one looks like it was cut from your shadow."

Elias’s jaw tightened. He reached for the jacket, slid into it, and smoothed the lapels with a sharp tug before finally turning. "Satisfied?"

Victor leaned back in the chair, crimson gaze raking over him with indecent leisure. He let the silence stretch until the air itself seed to wait. Then, casually, "Almost. We’ll see how you handle the red."

Elias closed his eyes briefly, muttering under his breath, "Killed by fashion. Fitting."

The attendants, trained well enough to pretend deafness, rolled forward the next set before he could argue his way out of it. Elias pulled off the charcoal suit, trying his best to not scowl even more at Victor’s impertinence, laying each piece aside as if it might bite.

The second look was lighter: an ivory silk shirt, slim trousers the shade of smoke, and shoes gleaming like wet stone. He slipped into it with the sa elegant movents, adjusting gold cuffs, testing buttons, and tilting his head in the mirror like he was grading a student’s exam.

Victor’s voice ca low and infuriatingly amused. "You look like temptation in restraint. Ivory suits you. Makes you dangerous in a way you pretend you’re not."

Elias exhaled through his nose, tugged at the hem of the shirt, and didn’t answer.

’Don’t indulge him, Elias. Don’t.’ He thought while undressing again.

The third rack wasn’t formal at all. Jeans, perfectly cut, and a black T-shirt so soft it threatened to lt between his fingers. He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

’He is buying underwear; why am I even surprised at this point?’

Victor swirled his glass again, a faint smirk tugging his mouth. "So battles are fought in shadows. And I want you to look good in all of them. Even in casual style."

Elias stepped into the jeans, the fabric sliding over his hips with a fit too precise to be coincidence. He pulled the T-shirt on, adjusting the neckline, and caught his reflection, casual, sharp, almost... approachable.

He hated that he didn’t hate it and almost groaned for who knows how many tis today.

Victor humd, lounging like a king watching his general dress for war. "Perfect. You’re mine whether you’re wearing silk or cotton."

"Or nothing," Elias muttered dryly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest curve.

The attendants moved again, revealing yet another look, this ti paired with a velvet box opened to display a slim chain, a pair of cufflinks, and socks in a shade of red so bold Elias blinked at them like they might combust.

"Not only killed by fashion," he repeated, dragging a hand down his face. "But apparently buried with flags."

Victor only lifted his glass, watching Elias over it, his crimson gaze burning. "Don’t be dramatic, but if you die so easily, then I’ll build the monunt myself."