I wanted to ruin her. I wanted to pray to her. I wanted to fuck the angel right out of my soul and watch the wings rot.
And that—that—is what scared me.
So I ran. And now I listen.
Deimos’s growl cuts through the wall like a blade. There’s acrack—a slap, a sob—and then Bastion’s voice, thick with pleasure. “You’re our little demon fuck whore now.”
My jaw clenches. My cock jerks. I stroke myself harder, sick with the knowledge of howrightit feels. I should have stayed. Should have joined them.
I should be the one inside her right now.
Then—her cry.
Not pain. Not pleasure. Something deeper. More raw.
And I come again, biting back a sound that tears through my throat anyway as my seed spurts against the side of the dresser. My legs shake. My knees buckle. I grip the edge like it’s the only thing holding me to this world.
Footsteps.
I freeze.
Voices. The door creaks.
I don’t turn. I don’t need to. They already know. I can feel Deimos’s amusement before I hear the smug twist of his voice. “Poor Cassiel.”
Bastion’s laugh is a low snort. “Coward.”
I say nothing. Because they’re right.
I shouldn’t be here.
But I come anyway.
The room smells like sex and sweat and shadows. The candles gutter low, barely more than waxy stubs now. And she—she lies curled in the middle of the bed like a toy no one bothered to put away. Limbs slack. Hair tangled. Skin flushed. Every inch of her glistening with what they left behind.
She’s still wet between her thighs. Still marked. Still open.
My chest cracks in half at the sight of her. They didn’t even cover her.
She gave them everything. And they walked away.
My feet move before my mind does. I reach her gently—so gently—and gather her closer to the center of the bed, arranging her limbs with a care no one has ever given me. She murmurs in her sleep but doesn’t wake. Her breathing is steady. Trusting.
Foolish little demon.
I leave only long enough to fetch a warm bowl of water and a clean cloth from Deimos’s bathroom. I sit at the edge of the mattress and begin to wash her. Not quickly. Not clinically.
Reverently.
Her thighs. Her hips. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her throat.
She stirs only once, letting out a low, almost feral purring sound from somewhere deep in her chest.
And it destroys me. Because the demon inside her is satisfied. And the man inside me is not.
I finish slowly, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out. I pull the blanket over her and tuck it around her body like a loverwould. She exhales softly. Shifts toward the pillow. Peaceful. Unknowing.
That sound—so fragile, so unguarded—is what ruins me.
