Page 4 of Even Angels fall
After those two days of boredom and crying alone in my room, my father increased my physical training and drastically decreased my politics lessons.
Now I only have those on Sundays, right after my weekly haircut.
If one can call it a haircut.
I’m shaven close to the skull, and I’ve been like this since my father got out of his damn office eight years ago.
It’s the sign of my freedom—or lack thereof—and is meant to make my training easier.
Because one can’t get annoyed at a strand of hair in their eyes if there’s no hair at all.
Sometimes I catch myself dreaming of the long black locks I used to sport before all of this happened. I imagine how soft and shiny they were, but maybe it’s just my imagination and they were nothing like that.
I’ll never know.
Because I doubt whoever my father is marrying me off to will want that changed, or more exactly will dare to do something that would change my appearance.
If Michaël gives you something, it’d better stay the way it is, no matter if it is a thing or a being.
No one wants to feel the wrath of my father.
He might be a dove-shifter, but he fully embraced his role a long time ago. He’s nothing but a warlord now and as easily as he can give, he can take back even faster.
So, whomever I am going to be the sacrificial lamb to might not keep me for long.
I’ll still have to go through my wedding night, though.
I shudder at the thought.
I know what to expect. In theory.
The thing is, when you have the kind of schedule that has been forced upon me, you don’t have much time to experience the joys of flesh sins.
Not that I’m sure I’d enjoy anything of the sort I’ve heard the ladies at the archangel court talk about.
It sounds more like breeding than pleasure.
Léandre told me it can actually be fun and hot, but I don’t think he’s ever done anything other than fuck his hand, so I’m not sure I should believe him.
He’s read books, though, not just the academic kind. About five years ago, he found a pile of romantic comedies at the back of a shelf and started to read.
For science.
I’ll never forget how red his face became when he finally found the courage to tell me what was inside the book. It matched the tips of his wings and drew my first smile in weeks.
He’s the only one who still makes me smile, and it doesn’t happen as often as he’d like, but we both know it’s just a matter of time before all my smiles are going to disappear.
I see how it pains him. I do. But I can’t find it in me to comfort him.
I’m the one who actually needs comfort.
But to me, comfort is a fifteen-minute-long shower.
One I plan to enjoy to the fullest, as I glide my hand between my breast and down to my pussy.
I may not know what to physically expect of my wedding night, but it doesn’t stop me from exploring myself.
I could have done like Léandre and read books, if I had had the time, or even watched pornography, if I was ever given any piece of technology this world was full of when my kind arrived.
