Infernal words that carry no meaning but plant seeds of unease. Dreams twist. His breathing quickens, uneven, restless. Sweat beads across his forehead.
It's petty satisfaction. Inadequate.
But it's all covenant law permits.
For now.
Then—soft as silk, sharp as a blade—her voice cuts through the night.
"Azrathiel."
I step through shadow and materialize in her room.
She sits upright in bed, wrapped in the cloak I'd brought her nights ago. Moonlight spills through the window, catching on dark hair loose around her shoulders.
And on the bruises circling her wrist.
Deep yellow, almost brown fingerprints. Four distinct marks where Bram's grip had closed too tight.
Something primitive and violent surges through me.
"Where were you?"
The question carries an edge I haven't heard from her before—not quite accusation, but close enough to raise my eyebrows. There's something different in her posture tonight, a tension that speaks of time spent waiting, watching the shadows for movement that never came.
I chuckle, pushing off from where I'd been leaning against the stone wall. The sound echoes softly in the small room. "Don't pout at me, flower."
Yet the pouting persists, if anything growing more pronounced. My gaze inevitably snags on that lower lip, pushed forward in what appears to be genuine displeasure rather thanany calculated attempt at manipulation. It's... endearing, in a way that catches me off guard. This small show of petulance from someone who spent weeks bending to every harsh word and unreasonable demand.
"You weren't here," she says, and there's something raw beneath the complaint. Something that sounds almost like hurt. Her voice carries a weight I'm still learning to interpret—full of an attitude that's only grown sharper, more defined since we bound the contract. As if our agreement gave her permission to actuallywantthings. To expect them.
"I was working, flower," I say, letting an amused edge thread through my voice even as I study her face in the moonlight. The way her jaw sets, stubborn. The way her eyes refuse to drop from mine despite the clear challenge in her tone.
She crosses her arms over her chest—still pouting, still holding that defiant line of her mouth that makes something warm curl in my chest. But the gesture only serves to highlight the evidence of Bram's attention. The bruises stand out darker against her skin in this light, a brutal constellation of fingerprints that makes my hands clench at my sides.
The sight of them cuts through any amusement I might have found in her display of temper.
"Would a gift make it better?"
A shrug. Deliberately unimpressed.
I materialize two boxes on the bed beside her.
Despite her studied nonchalance, her hands move fast. She pulls the lid off the first box, then stops completely.
Fabric spills across her lap. Deep wine-red, simple cut but fine weave. No lace or frills—nothing that speaks of ownership or decoration. Just quality. The second dress beneath it runs darker, midnight blue threaded with subtle silver.
The jewelry box opens next. A pendant on delicate chain. Earrings that catch moonlight without screaming wealth.
Her fingers hover over everything without touching.
"I've..." She swallows. "My father worked so hard to provide. But I've never owned anything this beautiful."
The words settle heavy in the quiet.
I watch her trace the pendant's edge with one fingertip, reverent. Like it might vanish if she grips too hard.
Something cracks open beneath my ribs.