"Breathe with me," I murmur against her hair, though my own breathing threatens to ignite the air around us. "Just breathe, flower."
She follows the rhythm of my breathing until her sobs quiet, until the trembling in her shoulders stills to match my steady heartbeat. The salt of her tears still dampens my shirt, but her breath comes even now, calm.
"Better?" I murmur against her hair.
She nods against my chest, not quite ready to pull away.
I ease her back gently, studying the exhaustion etched in every line of her face. "I'll be right back."
Before she can respond, I step through shadow into the infernal plane. My private chambers stretch before me—obsidian walls lined with treasures accumulated over millennia of contracts. I move with purpose through the collection, selecting silk the color of midnight sky, woolen blankets soft as cloud-down, a pillow stuffed with phoenix feathers that will never lose their warmth.
The return journey takes mere heartbeats. I emerge in her room to find her still sitting exactly where I left her, staring at her empty hands.
I begin arranging the silk across her narrow bed, smoothing each fold with careful precision. The wool follows, then the pillow positioned just so. A nest worthy of something precious.
"No." Her voice cuts through my work.
I pause, one hand still adjusting the corner of a blanket. "No?"
"I don't deserve it." She shakes her head, dark hair falling around her face like a curtain.
The words hit me wrong, sparking something volcanic in my chest. My eyes flash with infernal fire as I straighten to my full height.
"You deserve whatever I say you deserve." The words snap out sharper than intended, edged with the authority of someone who once commanded legions. "Nothing less. Nothing more. And I say you deserve silk and comfort and every beautiful thing I can lay at your feet."
Silence stretches between us like a held breath. She flinches slightly at my tone, and guilt follows swift on the heels of my anger. I force my voice gentler.
"Why didn't you summon me?"
Her shoulders curl inward again, making her seem smaller than ever. "I was ashamed."
The admission lands like a physical blow. Ashamed. Of needing help. Of being hurt. Of trusting me with gifts that others could destroy.
Heat builds behind my ribs where the celestial chains bind my essence. The markings along my shoulders begin to glow white-hot as fury threatens to consume rational thought entirely.
Vaelra and Mariselle. Both of them. Right now.
I turn toward the wall, ready to step through shadow and paint their modest home red with justice. They hurt her. They made her feel shame for accepting what I freely gave. They destroyed something I created with my own hands, something that took centuries to perfect.
They will burn for this. Slowly.
"Azrathiel, wait."
Her voice stops me mid-stride. I hear her scramble to her feet behind me, bare feet hitting the cold floor.
Her fingers close around my wrist like a shackle stronger than any celestial binding. The touch burns through me, but not with fire—with something infinitely more dangerous.
"Not yet."
"And why not?" The words emerge as a snarl, infernal power crackling in the air around us. "Why should I not end them right here and now? They put their hands on you. They hurt you. They destroyed what was mine to give."
The room grows colder with each word, frost spreading across the windows in intricate patterns that mirror my rage. Her breath mists in the sudden chill, but she doesn't release my wrist.
"Because," she whispers, and the single word carries more weight than any contract I've ever signed. "I'm asking you not to."
The fight drains out of me like water through cracked stone.
Asking. Not commanding. Not invoking the contract that binds me to her will. Simply asking, as if my choice matters. As if she trusts me to make the right decision without magical compulsion.