I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I will not fucking cry in front of the God of Death.
My lower lip quivers in protest.
Azrael’s expression morphs in an instant, face crinkling with compassion.
“Oh, darling…”
Before I can blink, he folds in front of me, staring down into my face and studying me as if he can see the weight of the world that causes my chin to tremble.
When I divert my watering eyes, his forefinger curls beneath my chin and tips my gaze back towards his. “Tell me.”
Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, I manage to whisper.
“He’s been through a lot... Perhaps damaged beyond repair. He will not take a mate.”
Azrael’s brows knit together in a sinister line.
“Who is he?”
Sniffling, I roll my eyes. “No one you know. A human. On Terrenea.”
Azrael gives a humorless chuckle. “Stubborn creatures.”
“Indeed.”
“Shall I kill him for you?”
Pain flares immediately down our tether, and I fervently shake my head. “No.”
Azrael pauses for several moments as though deliberating something. That penetrative gaze of his seems to pierce me to my very soul. When he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, he releases my chin and approaches a bookshelf where a number of various instruments sit.
My eyes slip shut, tears streaming.
All I want to do is lie down and die.
Drawing in a deep breath, I open my eyes to find Azrael standing in front of a curious-looking globe perched on a small pedestal. With a single digit, he caresses its surface, and it briefly glows before dimming. He stares at it thoughtfully for a moment before his gaze passes over the instruments lying beside it as his voice drops to a thoughtful murmur.
“For as long as I’ve lived, I swear I’ve seen just as manysoulboundreject their mates as I have those who’ve acceptedthem. It does not guarantee happiness. Only karma. I can only wonder what led us here.”
I am so tired of this life.
What’s the fucking point?
Azrael’s gaze snaps back to mine as he returns to stand in front of me. “Do not think such things, little seraphim.”
Bittersweet emotion surges in the wake of his tenderness.
The memory of the last time he called me that is still vivid.
Sniffling, embarrassment heats my already reddened cheeks.
“You can read thoughts?”
“No, but I can sense death... and one’s desire for it.”