Page 40 of Her Fallen Angel

I press my fingers against my split lip, relishing the sharp sting. Pain grounds me, reminds me who I am. What I am. A warrior who breaks spirits, not the other way around.

Let them think they've won this round. I've learned patience in breaking slaves. I can wait to show them exactly how wrong they are about my supposed weakness.

A soft knock at my door pulls me from my dark thoughts. Without waiting for permission, Aren slips inside, carrying her familiar wooden box of healing supplies. I'm honestly surprised it took her this long to seek me out. Her dark waves cascade over one shoulder as she takes in the destruction around her, but her expression remains carefully neutral.

"You're bleeding." Her voice carries no judgment, just quiet observation. One she should be used to by now.

"Leave it." The words come out as a growl.

She ignores my command, moving closer with the determined grace I've come to expect. The hem of her simple dress pools around her as she kneels beside me, opening her box of supplies.

My fingers snap around her wrist before she can touch me. "Why do you persist in this?" It's a question that's been plaguing me as she cleans me up each day. "I've given you no reason to care about my wellbeing."

Her deep brown eyes meet mine, unwavering despite my grip. "Because you're hurting, and I can help." Such a simple answer, delivered with the quiet dignity that drew me to her in the first place. "Let me ease your pain."

Something cracks inside my chest, a fissure in armor I've worn for centuries. My grip loosens but doesn't release her entirely. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers like a trapped bird.

"I don't need your pity." The words lack their usual venom.

"It's not pity." She shifts closer, her free hand hovering near my split lip. "It's purpose. You gave me purpose when you claimed me. Let me fulfill it."

My wings twitch, sending another shower of dull feathers to the floor. Her eyes track their fall with an emotion I can't - won't - name. The crack in my chest widens.

"You think tending my wounds gives you purpose?" I bare my teeth, but she doesn't flinch.

"I think helping you makes me stronger." Her thumb brushes over my knuckles, still wrapped around her wrist. "And I think you know that."

Aren’s fingers are gentle as they clean the blood from my lip. I watch her intently, but every flicker of emotion across her face is a mystery I can't solve. Her mouth moves silently, her lips forming the words of a prayer, a devotion so earnest it's almost tangible.

"What are you praying for?" My voice is rough, edged with the pain still simmering within.

Her deep brown eyes meet mine. "For you." No hesitation, just quiet certainty.

A shiver runs through me, a mix of anger and something else I refuse to name. "For me?" I mock. "You think your prayers can heal me? Save me?"

She doesn't flinch at the venom in my words. Instead, she dabs at a cut on my cheekbone, her touch as light as a feather. "Not save. Guide."

And I want to fight her on it. I do.

But I also want her so damn bad I can't think straight. Maybe I am weak because in this moment, I'm ready to give into her. I'll let myself slip a little deeper into this addiction just to have the taste I've been dying for.

Her fingers trail down to my jaw, wiping away the last of the blood. I catch her wrist, holding her gaze. "Show me," I demand. "Show me how devoted you can be."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't look away. There's a beat of silence, a moment where her breath hitches. Then she nods, a small, determined movement.

I release her wrist, leaning back against the wall. She shifts closer, her hands resting lightly on my thighs. Her touch is tentative, yet there's an underlying strength, a resolve that's as alluring as it is infuriating.

Her lips press against a bruise on my chest, the warmth of her breath sending a jolt through me. She murmurs something, a prayer or a plea, I can't tell. Her mouth moves lower, tracing the lines of old scars, ones earned long before she entered my life.

My breath catches as she trails kisses down my abdomen, her dark hair brushing against my skin. There's a reverence in her touch, a devotion that's both intoxicating and terrifying. I fist my hands in her hair, guiding her but not forcing. She resists just enough to show she's doing this by choice, not coercion.

Her hands undo my laces, and I hiss when she wraps one around my cock, stroking the length. I tug her head back so she looks at me. "Think you can take me?" I grunt as she swipes her thumb along the head. "Or do you want to beg for mercy?"

"I can take whatever you need to give me," she says, still stroking me.

I grunt, the images in my mind filthy. "Open your mouth."

She sticks her tongue out, head tipped back, and I lean forward, spitting into her mouth. She swallows without command and the sight makes me harder.

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