Page 51 of Claimed By Midnight

And I'm back here hiding.

"Fuck this." I stride to my office door, yanking it open. The metal handle warps under my grip.

The workshop air hits me with its familiar mix of forge smoke and metal. Athena stands at my main workbench, her small frame bent over a collection of daggers. Her delicate fingers trace the runes I've etched into each blade, making notes in that precise handwriting of hers.

"You need gloves." The words come out harsher than intended. Her shoulders jump, but she doesn't drop the weapon. Good reflexes, at least.

"I'm being careful." She doesn't look up, just keeps examining the blade with those golden-green eyes. "These markings are fascinating. Did you forge protection runes into this one?"

I move closer, my wings casting shadows over her work. She's right about the runes, but that's not the point. "Protection runes won't stop these from taking your fingers off."

A soft laugh escapes her. "I thought you wanted these cataloged by sunset?"

"Not at the cost of your hands." I reach past her, plucking the dagger from her grip. Her warmth brushes against my arm, that damned citrus-sweet scent of her flooding my senses. "There's a pair of enchanted gloves in the top drawer. Use them."

She turns, looking up at me with that stubborn set to her jaw. "I've been working with healing supplies for years. I know how to handle dangerous materials."

"Healing supplies don't fight back, little demon. Put on the gloves and you can work on enchantments, too." I've been spending too much of my time teaching her just to be close.

Even as I say it, I'm already heading back to my study. I need distance. Need to stop hovering over her like some obsessed guardian.

But I can't seem to tear myself away.

I lean against my office doorframe, unable to tear my gaze from Athena's hands as she works. Her fingers dance over the steel, tracing the intricate patterns I showed her last week. Blue light sparks between her fingertips - not from any innate magic of her own, but from the enchanted gloves she finally pulled on.

The metal responds to her touch, warming and shifting under her careful ministrations. She's learning fast, picking up the basics of enchantment enhancement in ways that impress me. Each stroke of her fingers strengthens the existing spells, her movements precise and confident.

"Good," I mutter, more to myself than her. The word tastes foreign on my tongue. I don't praise often, especially not humans.

But watching her work, seeing how she treats each weapon with respect rather than fear... something fierce and hungry coils in my chest. She's natural at this, even without magic of her own. The steel sings for her like it does for me.

A strand of honey-blonde hair falls across her face. She doesn't break concentration, just tucks it behind her ear with a gloved hand and keeps working. The afternoon sun catches in her curls, turning them to molten gold against the dark metal of my workbench.

My wings flex unconsciously, stretching toward her before I catch myself. This possessive instinct - this need to go to her, to take her, to truly claim her - is overwhelming.

So I shut myself in my office for the rest of the day. If only to keep my hands off of her. But my mind never leaves her.

By the time night falls, I feel like I'm losing my mind. I know I need to talk to her, and it's taken a fair amount of wine and time locked up in this study for me to finally come to that conclusion.

Quietly, I stride out of my workshop and through the mansion to her room. I push open her bedroom door, the words Raven beat into my skull ready on my tongue. The hinges don't make a sound - and I'm glad when I see her. .

Moonlight spills through the open window, casting silver shadows across her sleeping form. Athena lies curled on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, the other clutching the silk sheets.

Her honey-blonde curls spill across the pillow like liquid gold, and her face... fuck. The sharp edges she carries during the day have melted away, leaving something soft and vulnerable that makes my chest ache.

My wings twitch with the urge to wrap around her, to shield her from the world. From me.

I take a step closer, drawn by the gentle rise and fall of her breath. A book lies open beside her - one of my textson enchantment theory. Even in sleep, she's studying, pushing herself to understand my craft. Notes scatter across the bedside table in her precise handwriting, questions about power flows and resonance patterns that show just how deeply she thinks about this work.

The sight hits me like a blow to the chest. This fierce, brilliant creature who dives into demon magic without fear, who challenges my every assumption about humans with her determination and grace. Who looks at weapons of war and sees beauty in their making.

"Fuck." The whisper escapes before I can catch it.

Because I am hit with this need so fiercely that I can't smother it. The last time I was in here, I was buried in her, and keeping myself away from her is becoming more and more impossible.

My hands clench at my sides as the truth I've been fighting crashes through every wall I've built.

I love her.

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