Page 14 of Her Fallen Angel

Her brown eyes meet mine, unflinching. "Yes, sir."

I grin, liking the sound of that on her lips. Then, I add, "Without clothes."

She rises with that maddening grace she carries, each movement deliberate as she removes the simple dress. The fabric pools at her feet, yet she maintains her composure, chin lifted. No trembling, no tears - just that same quiet strength that makes me want to shatter her resolve.

And fuck, my mouth goes dry at the sight of her. She's tempting, her frame graceful and lean. Her breasts are small and perky and I want to kiss and bite those taunt nipples.

I'm not even sure who I'm tormenting anymore now as I watch her round ass sway as she walks toward my kitchen. I'm following her, unable to think of much else as I drop into my seat.

"Kneel beside the table."

Aren glides across the floor, assuming the position with practiced ease. Her hair falls forward, creating a dark curtain that partially shields her face. But I catch the steel in her gaze, the unwavering dignity that makes my jaw clench.

I sit at the table, watching as she pours the morning tea with steady hands. Steam curls between us. Her movements are precise, efficient - serving without subservience. Each gesture carries an underlying defiance that sets my teeth on edge.

My wings flex with irritation. She should be trembling, begging, breaking - not maintaining this infuriating composure. Instead, her quiet dignity only heightens my awareness of her. The graceful line of her neck, the subtle strength in her shoulders, the way she moves with such fluid control.

I grip my cup too hard, nearly cracking the delicate porcelain. "Your prayers should be to me alone, little flame."

"I will not lose my faith while I serve you." Her voice carries no fear, no submission - just that same steady resolve that makes my blood burn.

By the time breakfast is over, I know I have to get out of this house. I send her to dress, feeling much closer to breaking than she is, and then we head to the compound for training.

At least in the ring, I can work out my problems. And when my friends see me and immediately join, I feel relieved. Even though Aren's stare burns into me with every move I make.

"Again." My wings snap out as I circle Vhex, muscles coiled for the next strike. Sweat drips down my back, but I keep my focus split between the fight and Aren's watchful gaze from her position against the courtyard wall.

Vhex lunges with a snarl, amber eyes gleaming. I duck under his swing, drive my elbow into his ribs. The crack echoes across the training yard. Before he can recover, I sweep his legs and slam him into the packed dirt.

"Fucking hell," Vhex wheezes, rolling to his feet. Blood trickles from his split lip.

Mykael steps into the ring, green eyes calculating. His dove-gray wings flex as he shifts into a defensive stance. "My turn."

My blood burns hotter. I launch forward, faster than before. Mykael blocks the first two strikes, but my third catches him across the jaw. His head snaps back. I press the advantage, driving him backward with a series of brutal combinations.

A quick glance shows Aren watching, her brown eyes missing nothing. No fear in her expression - just that same analytical observation that sets my teeth on edge. She should cower at this display of violence. Instead, she studies each move like she's memorizing a battle plan.

I slam Mykael into the ground harder than necessary. His wings crumple beneath him.

"Getting a bit intense today," Mykael grunts, pushing himself up.

My skin prickles under Aren's steady gaze. Each brutal takedown should terrify her, should break that insufferable composure. Yet her attention feeds something else inside me - a hunger to show her more, to prove my dominance in ways that have nothing to do with fear.

"Again," I growl, rolling my shoulders. My wings cast dark shadows across the courtyard as I stalk toward my next opponent.

I can't make sense of this burning need for her to watch me. To see my power, my control. It's not about breaking her anymore - it's something else that claws at my chest, demanding more of her attention with each violent display.

I'm not sure what it is, but it feels deadly. It clings to me until Vhex pushes me to stop training, and it hovers over us as Aren and I walk back home. She follows me immediately as I pad into my room, and I don't dismiss her. I don't want to.

Instead, I change and I throw my blood-stained training clothes at Aren's feet, drops of crimson splattering across the stone floor. "Clean these."

She kneels beside the pile without hesitation, gathering each piece with careful movements. No revulsion crosses her features as her fingers brush over the dark stains. Her touch is methodical, almost reverent as she examines a deep tear along the shoulder where Vhex's blade caught me.

"These will need mending." She lifts the fabric, studying the ragged edges. Her delicate fingers trace the torn leather with such gentleness that my wings twitch.

"Just clean them." The words come out rougher than intended.

But she's already retrieved a needle and thread from the sewing basket, settling cross-legged on the floor. Her dark hair falls forward as she works, creating a curtain between us. Each stitch is precise, measured - like everything else she does.

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