Page 11 of Her Fallen Angel

"Yield!" He chokes out the word through broken teeth.

I grab his wings, twisting until tendons tear and joints pop. His screams turn desperate. Beautiful. But when I look at Aren again, she's still watching with that same measured interest. Like she's memorizing my moves rather than cowering from them.

Fury burns in my chest. I release my opponent, leaving him whimpering in the dirt. Other warriors drag him away for healing while I stalk toward my little flame.

"Enjoyed the show?" My voice comes out as a snarl.

Those deep brown eyes meet mine without flinching. "Your form is exceptional, my lord. Especially the way you use your wings for balance during close combat."

My hands clench at my sides. Where's the fear? The disgust? Instead she's treating this like some kind of combat lesson. It sets my teeth on edge.

I drag her to my weapons chamber, shoving a cleaning cloth into her delicate hands. "Clean them. Every last one." The wall bristles with blades - daggers, swords, axes - each one stained with violence like today's.

Her fingers close around the first blade - my favorite dagger with its wicked curve and serrated edge. I expect hesitation, maybe even revulsion at the dried blood crusting the steel. Instead, she traces the ceremonial runes etched into the metal with something like... fascination.

"These markings..." Her thumb follows a spiral pattern near the hilt. "They're prayers to your god, aren't they?"

Heat flares under my skin. I don't know why I hate her asking, her reverence as she says it. Maybe it's because my god is real - is great - and hers are false.

Or maybe it's because I've never had anyone admire something of mine. I don't know how to react to it.

"Did I tell you to admire them?" I snap, but my eyes track her movements as she works. Her methodical strokes polish thesteel until it gleams. Those small hands cradle each blade with unexpected care, like she's handling holy relics instead of tools of war.

She moves to my broadsword next. The massive weapon should look absurd in her grip, but she manages it with surprising grace. Her fingers dance along the fuller, cleaning away gore while examining the intricate scrollwork.

"The craftsmanship is extraordinary." Her voice carries genuine appreciation. "Each rune flows into the next, creating a complete prayer."

My wings twitch with irritation. Or something else entirely. "You're here to clean, not analyze."

But I can't look away as she works her way through my arsenal. Every weapon receives the same reverent attention. She doesn't rush or recoil from the evidence of violence. If anything, she seems to lose herself in studying each blade's unique markings.

I stay with her until she's done and then dump her back into her cell. Maybe she is some kind of magic wielder because as I head to the mess hall, I feel like she is scramblingmybrain.

As soon as I stride into the crowded building, I know that the evening meal is going to grate on my nerves. Whispers follow my movements, eyes tracking me after having Aren out near the training ring today.

Verrax, a lower-ranked commander with muddy brown-gray wings, leans across the table. "Still keeping that human pet? Thought you would've been done with her by now."

My fork scrapes against the plate. "Your point?"

"Just unusual to see you invested in one slave for so long. Normally you'd have discarded her by now."

The hall falls silent as I rise, wings spreading to cast shadows over the table. Violet light crackles between my fingers. "Questioning my methods?"

Verrax's throat bobs. "No, I merely-"

My hand closes around his neck, lifting him from his seat. His wings flap uselessly as I slam him against the wall. "Merely what?"

Blood trickles from where my nails dig into his flesh. Infighting among xaphan is so common that most aren't even watching. And no one will come to his aid.

If you aren't strong enough to fight off your attackers, you don't deserve to be saved. At least as a warrior.

"Nothing." Verrax chokes out the word. "Forgive me."

I squeeze harder, feeling cartilage crack under my grip. "Next time you wonder about my choices, remember this moment."

His face turns purple before I release him. He crumples to the floor, gasping. Other officers avert their eyes as I return to my seat.

But I know they are right. This obsession for me is only growing, and I want more. I want to push her, bend her, break her. I want to see her shatter forme. I want her devotion tome.

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