Page 18 of Her Fallen Angel

My magic surges, violet light crackling along my blade. The glow reflects in Vhex's amber eyes as he jumps back. "I'm fine."

But I'm not. All I can think about is how Aren bowed her head this morning, serving my breakfast with perfect grace while whispering prayers under her breath. How she maintains that inner light even as she submits to my every command. It infuriates me.

"Watch your left," Mykael calls out as Vhex's blade slices through the air where my wing had been a moment before.

I growl and throw myself into the fight, imagining ways to finally break through Aren's quiet dignity. Maybe I'll make her kneel beside me during war council meetings, force her to see the brutality of my world up close. Or perhaps I'll have her serve me in the great hall, where every warrior can witness her submission.

"There's the ruthless warrior." Vhex laughs as I drive him back, my strikes growing more aggressive with each thought of Aren. "Whatever you're thinking about, it's working."

My blade finds an opening, drawing blood across his bicep. But even this small victory feels hollow. What's the point of winning here when I can't crack through Aren's unwavering faith? She serves me perfectly while keeping that core of steel intact. It's maddening.

"Enough." Mykael steps between us, his dove-gray wings spread wide. "You're both getting sloppy. Take a break before someone loses a limb."

I lower my weapon, chest heaving. Sweat drips down my back as I try to focus on anything but thoughts of my little flame and all the ways I want to extinguish her inner light.

"I'm calling it a day." I sheath my blade.

Mykael flicks his eyes over me. "Probably for the best."

I try not to let those words bother me as I head home.

I stalk through the townhouse, muscles burning from the brutal training session. Blood trickles from a cut above my eye where Vhex landed a lucky strike. The familiar scent of herbs and steam drifts from my chambers, and I pause at the doorway.

Aren kneels beside the copper tub, testing the water temperature with delicate fingers. She rises gracefully at my entrance, not bowing her head. It's a strange mix of her submission and her defiance. "Your bath is ready."

I grunt acknowledgment, stripping off my sweat-soaked training clothes. Her hands are steady as she helps remove myarmor, each piece placed carefully aside for cleaning. When her fingers brush the fresh cut on my face, I grab her wrist.

"It's nothing."

"Please." Those deep brown eyes meet mine, unwavering. "Let me tend it."

Something twists in my chest at her quiet determination. I release her, wings twitching with discomfort as she retrieves healing supplies. The water embraces me as I sink into the tub, hot enough to sting my battle-worn muscles.

Aren's touch is feather-light as she cleans the wound. "Your wings are tense. Did training go poorly?"

"Since when do you question me, little flame?" But there's no bite in my words. Her fingers work through my hair, washing away dried blood and sweat.

"I pray for your safety during training." She applies a healing salve to the cut. The sting fades under her gentle ministrations.

"Your prayers are wasted on me." I catch her hand again, studying the contrast between her olive skin and my battle-scarred grip. "I'm not interested in you spending your time on something so worthless."

She doesn't pull away. "All souls are worthy of prayer."

That damned serenity. Even now, tending my wounds, she maintains that inner light I can't seem to extinguish. Her care should feel like submission, like victory. Instead, it awakens something uncomfortable in my chest – something I've spent so much time burying.

"Kneel." The command slips from my lips, harsh against the steam-filled air. I expect resistance, a flicker of that inner fire, but Aren sinks gracefully to her knees beside the tub. Water sloshes against the rim as I shift, studying her profile.

Her fingers return to my hair, working through the tangles with careful attention. The soft melody of her prayers fills the chamber, wrapping around me like the heated water. My wingsspread across the tub's edge, droplets sliding down the ash-gray feathers.

"I didn't tell you to sing." But my voice lacks its usual edge. Her touch sends sparks down my spine, awakening something primal beneath my skin.

She doesn't stop. The ancient words flow from her lips like honey, a devotion I've never understood. My hand finds her throat, thumb pressing against her pulse point. Still she doesn't flinch, continuing her gentle ministrations as if I'm not capable of crushing her windpipe.

"You should fear me, little flame." The words come out rougher than intended. Her fingers trace the sensitive spot behind my ear, and heat pools low in my belly.

"Fear serves no purpose here." She works the soap through my hair, nails scraping lightly against my scalp. The sensation shoots straight to my core.

I growl, tightening my grip on her throat. Still she hums those damned prayers, her other hand trailing down my neck to my shoulder. The touch is reverent, worshipful in a way I never wanted. My magic crackles beneath my skin, violet light reflecting in her deep brown eyes.

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