They betrayed her.
The blood in my veins turns to ice as I stare at James's profile. My vision narrows until all I see are their faces, smiling, happy, celebrating a life built on my precious dawn's pain.
No demon I've ever encountered has committed a sin this unforgivable.
A plan starts to hatch in my mind.
James is active on social media. Finding his workplace is easy, the same with his favorite restaurant. It's not far from here, not with my wings.
I could go there and rip what little spine he has left from his weak body. It wouldn't even take me an hour. My precious dawn wouldn't even have to know.
But beneath the cold rage, something stirs. Something that curves my fury and makes the mate bond sing with vicious satisfaction.
I'm certain she feels hurt, possibly even left alone in this world when she should have been protected, loved, adored, honored. But she's free. Free to be mine if I can prove myself worthy. And I will. I will.
Navigating back to her profile, I scroll to before the engagement, when her posts were different—a coffee shop or the sunset with poetry captions or quotes from classic novels—small, quiet glimpses of a woman who found beauty in simple things. It doesn't give me much to go on, but at least I know a few things that she enjoys.
I place an order for every food item available at the grocery store. Adding two of everything, from snacks to deli meats, chocolate, multiple bags of coffee, and herbal teas.
Then, I buy the most expensive phone, laptop, and tablet I can find and pay extra for same-day delivery. I don’t want her to feel like a prisoner, shut off from the world while she's here with me.
I find the full novels of the poetry quotes she loved and purchase them. In my search, I find articles stating that if someone has more than a thousand books, their collection will be deemed a library.
Turning, I check the shelves in the office. There's enough space, but even if there wasn't I'd simply build her more.
I smile at the thought of her having her own personal library. Imagine her face lighting up as she discovers each title, her fingers trailing over spines, finding solace in stories. Maybe we could even read them together.
I set off adding the top one hundred books of each genre to my cart. Unfortunately, they won't arrive until tomorrow, but I can't think about how tomorrow, our tomorrow, isn't guaranteed.
I've begged and hoped for so long that one day someone would need me, choose me. And now I have that person and I can be everything I've always wanted to be for her. Her provider, her protector, her lover.
If I can convince her I'm worth the risk.
Please—I beg to the sky, the earth, to whatever deity is listening to me and would take pity on my heart, my life, my soul—please let her choose me. Please let her stay.
6
Sienna
I remember the heat.
No—I remember him. Those glowing eyes burning into mine. The press of fangs against my skin. The fire that raced through my veins, reshaping me, claiming me, marking me as something... else. And then—nothing.
My body feels like it's floating on clouds. No, that's not right. It's a mattress—the kind I've only dreamed about but never thought I'd ever get to touch—supporting my every curve like it was made for me. The pillow cradles my head perfectly, not too soft, not too firm. And the sheets feel like liquid silk against my bare skin.
Did I die?
My eyes flutter open, and I have to blink several times before the world stops spinning. I push myself up slowly, my arms shaking with the effort, then lean back against a headboard that feels like heaven—soft, plush velvet that seems to mold to my back. That's when I feel a twinge in my side, right where I was stabbed.
My trembling hands fly to my side. I glance down expecting to be covered in blood, but there's none there. A large black silk shirt that definitely isn't mine envelopes my body. My fingers fumble with the fabric as I check and find that I'm still in my underwear and bra.
My breathing quickens as I pull up the silk shirt to examine my side, finding only a small pink, slightly tender scar where a gaping wound should be.
That's not possible. That's not fucking possible.
I know I was stabbed. I felt the pain. I saw the blood!
I scan the room, searching for some sort of answer. It's massive—easily three times the size of my studio apartment—with soft gray walls and blackout curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows.
