Chapter 56 Incompletion
RAVIAL
She followed behind me without question.
I climbed the stairs carefully, ensuring the lamb was not jostled in my arms, her sleep undisturbed. Her lips were parted slightly, warm breath brushing my chest. Long lashes rested against freckled, sun-kissed skin. She looked peaceful. Relaxed.
As I looked down at her, I committed every feature to memory, counting each freckle scattered across her nose and cheeks, thirty-seven in total. Irregular. Asymmetrical. Inefficient in their placement.
From the car, I had counted her lashes. One hundred and fifty-two on the right eye, one hundred and forty-seven on the left. The discrepancy was minor—human imperfection—but notable. I could count them again now if I wished. Precision was effortless.
The numbers did not change. They never did.
And yet, I could not look away.
Even knowing them by heart should have been enough. But the curve of her lips, the tilt of her chin, the soft rise and fall of her chest drew me in. Beautiful. Intentional. Crafted with care. God Himself had shaped her with careful symmetry, high cheekbones, full lips, eyes spaced according to the golden ratio embedded in her design.
And still… she was mine.
I had seen beauty before. Angels more radiant. Women more flawless. Creatures of perfection beyond mortal comprehension. Yet she was different. Not perfect in the way celestial beings were but perfect to me. Every flaw, every mark, every deviation combined into something uniquely hers.
My true form was far more glorious, a symphony of terror and splendor that made mortals kneel or flee. Yet I could not look away from her.
I traced a finger along the bridge of her nose, beneath the hand resting lightly against her back. I felt the steady pulse beneath her skin. Each beat confirmed she was alive. Breathing. I had taken her body—nothing more. Not her essence. Not the light God had placed within her. That light remained untouched. Unspoiled. I had not attempted to corrupt it.
A shiver ran through me, and it was not discomfort. It was fascination. A tension I could not release. Obsession, yes but more precise than desire. Calculated. Rational.
My mind cataloged everything: every breath, every sigh, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of her hair, the weight of her against me. And still, my thoughts returned to the same conclusion.
God had made her light. Beautiful. Untouchable.
And I had claimed only the shell.
I had taken her body. Marked it. Filled it. Owned it in ways that left bruises.
But not the light.
Not yet.
I had not corrupted what made her one of God’s chosen.
Was that deliberate? A calculation? Or had my obsession shifted parameters without my consent?
Was this punishment?
Had God placed her in my path to torment me to bind me to something reason and logic could not sever? And perhaps, after time, I would lose her. The thought stirred a dangerous curiosity. To know what it felt like to have something precious torn from me. To experience helplessness, an otherwise trivial concept.
The idea was illogical. Punishment implied justice. God did not punish. It balanced. I disrupted balance. That was my purpose.
Still, the thought lingered.
Incompletion.
I would not allow it.
Yet I could not release my gaze. Not a freckle, not a lash, not the curve of her throat escaped me. I counted her lashes again—two hundred and ninety-nine. Perfect. Each one a reminder of why I was captivated. Why obsession was no longer a choice, but an inevitability.
She stirred in her sleep, and I adjusted my hold, drawing her closer. Fragile in rest, unaware—and yet dangerous. Because within her, light endured. And I could not tolerate that light being claimed by anyone but me.
I whispered softly, more observation than promise:
“You are mine, little lamb. Not your body. Not your innocence. Not yet. But your light… your light I cannot escape. And if the world takes it from you, I will understand why God seeks to torment me.”
I inhaled slowly. The scent of her hair. The warmth of her breath. Every detail burned itself into memory. I assessed. Quantified. Obsession was unnecessary.
It occurred anyway.
Predictable. Logical. Absolute.
And as I looked down at her sleeping face, I understood this was no fleeting desire. It was fixation. Purpose. A responsibility I had claimed through quiet calculation.
I was the keeper of her body. Of her light.
And the thought of losing either—of God taking her from me—left the rational part of me cold, and the rest dangerously alive.
I wondered, not for the first time, how long it would be before the world demanded its due—and how much blood, and patience, it would take to keep what belonged to me.
I entered the bedroom and laid her gently on the bed. I felt the copy’s gaze on me as I settled the lamb into sleep. I traced my hand along her skin, lingering longer than necessary. I did not want to leave—but I had to.
When I turned to the copy, I felt nothing. No irritation. No distaste. She was inconsequential. And yet, she had served her purpose. Had she not fled, the lamb would never have been brought to me. I would have married the copy—and eventually killed her when I discovered she was not the one I had desired for years.
She met my gaze boldly. I would grant her that. Still, I could smell her fear beneath the stench of deceit and pain.
I passed her and headed for my study. She followed without being told.
Inside, I leaned against the table, watching as she hovered near the door, clinging to the illusion of escape. Humans were pitiful creatures.
“Come,” I commanded.
She hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, four steps until she was nearly pressed against me.
I studied her face, then lifted a hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“You are alive,” I said calmly, “only because I have not decided otherwise.”