78

78
A few hours had passed, and I sat alone in my chamber, running a comb through my damp hair in front of the mirror. The silence buzzed around me, thick with doubt. Was it really true? Was I the only one who could stop Beliale? And if so… how?

Should I unleash that same force I’d used in the auditorium channel it at Aronne and Beliale, focused and undiluted? But the last time I tapped into that power, it had left me hollowed out, wrecked. Even now, I wasn’t fully recovered.

Maybe if I honed the energy, concentrated it without letting it scatter maybe then it would be enough. But what if it still failed? What if I poured everything I had into the attack and it barely scratched them?

As the descendant of an Archangel, I carried only a fraction of divine power. Could that ever rival a true fallen being, even one existing in a diminished, spiritual form?

A frustrated groan tore from me as I hurled the hairbrush onto the vanity table.

"You’re overthinking again. It’s too much to carry alone, isn’t it?"

Gosto’s voice slithered through the mirror, his image materializing so suddenly that I nearly screamed.

"Gods, don’t do that!" I snapped, heart leaping. "At least make a sound next time!"

He laughed softly, stepping forward until he stood behind me. He reached out, curling his fingers around a few strands of my hair.

“Need help with that?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words never formed. He gently took the brush and began combing my hair himself. The tension in my shoulders melted away. I exhaled, leaning into the warmth of his touch.

"I don’t know how you do that," I murmured.

"Do what?" His voice was velvet-wrapped danger, sliding down my spine.

"Calm me," I whispered.

He swept my hair aside, exposing the curve of my neck, and leaned in close. “Is that what I do?” he murmured, lips brushing the sensitive spot below my ear.

A tremor rolled through me. I bit my lip. “Among other things.”

He laughed again, breath soft against my skin. Then came another kiss slow, deliberate before he straightened and took a step back.

"I should go," he said, turning toward the door.

But before he could reach it, I was on my feet. My hand shot out and caught his, stopping him in his tracks.

"Stay," I said, voice sharp with emotion. "Why do you always do this? Stir up everything inside me then walk away?"

He froze. When he turned, his jaw was tight, his eyes burning.

"Because I’m a damned fool, Domitilla," he said hoarsely. "If I had any sense, I’d keep my distance. But I can’t. I want you too much. I want you beside me. I want to take you in every way possible."

Tears welled in my eyes. I let go of his hand and opened my arms wide. “Then do it. What’s stopping you?”

His expression twisted with pain.

“I’m cursed, Domitilla,” he growled. “I’m standing on the fucking edge. If I leave, I lose you forever. But if I stay, I lose you anyway… just slower.”

He reached out, tracing my cheek with the backs of his fingers. The touch was ghost-light. “I’m not allowed to love you,” he whispered. “I can’t love you.”

I drew in a shaky breath. “Then don’t,” I said softly. “Just be with me.”

His head moved side to side, a tortured denial. “This will only end worse.”

“I don’t care,” I breathed. “I’ve made up my mind. My love for you is enough.”

Something cracked in his gaze. And then his mouth was on mine.

His kiss was fire and desperation. His fangs grazed my lips, drawing a moan from deep inside me. His arms wrapped around me like a vice, holding me as though he feared I might vanish. I clung to him, threading my fingers through his silky hair. The ache of needing him was nearly unbearable.

He guided us backward until the bed hit the backs of my knees. I fell onto it, and he followed, bracing himself over me. His mouth blazed a trail along my jaw to my throat. When his fangs scraped the skin, a shudder rocked me.

He paused. Hovered. "I..." His voice cracked. "I can’t."

My heart stuttered. For a moment, I didn’t understand.

And then I remembered I’d told him I loved him. Out loud. Without shame.

My chest tightened. “Do you want to drink my blood?” I asked, the words catching in my throat.

His eyes flared with hunger. “I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Thoughts collided inside me Lazaro’s words, the prophecy, the weapon I was meant to become. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to face Beliale at all. Maybe the power wasn’t mine to wield, but his to awaken.

“Then drink,” I whispered.

His fangs extended, gleaming, his restraint thinning. “You don’t understand,” he said, voice ragged. “Your blood… it’s calling to me. It’s too potent. Once I start, I might not be able to stop.”

“I trust you,” I said simply. “Make me your weapon.”

“I don’t want a weapon,” he snapped. “I want you alive.”

“What if you don’t take it all? Just enough to make you stronger?” I pressed. “You know it will help us.”

He recoiled as if I’d struck him. “I could kill you.”

Tears gathered again, but I forced a smile. “What if it’s our only chance?”

He closed his eyes. “It’s pointless if you don’t survive.”

“I trust you,” I repeated. My fingers touched his cheek, then brushed his lips. “I love you.”

He inhaled sharply. When he opened his eyes again, they were blazing. He lowered himself, mouth pressing to my neck. The bite came swiftly, and instead of pain, there was pleasure dark and consuming. He held me tightly, fangs sinking deeper, drawing blood.

A deep growl rumbled from his chest as he drank, and I felt his body harden against mine. Arousal bloomed through me, fierce and irresistible. I bit my own lip, drunk on sensation. His grip was bruising, desperate.

And I didn’t care.

My blood poured into him as heat crashed through me in waves. My breath came in ragged moans. Then dizziness swept over me, and just as I teetered on the brink of losing consciousness, he bit down harder and I shattered.

I cried out his name, body pulsing with a pleasure so intense it bordered on agony. When he finally pulled away, trembling, I met his eyes and smiled… then sank into unconsciousness.

I didn’t die.

Despite the terrifying volume of blood he drank, I awoke feeling… whole. No fatigue. No pain. My body felt as if it had been rebuilt in my sleep.

Opening my eyes, I found Gosto still curled around me, fast asleep. I studied his face peaceful, soft. Blissful, even. My hand reached up to touch his cheek.

Warm.

Warmer than usual.

Was it my blood? Was his body adjusting to a new kind of power? He seemed to need sleep far more than I did now.

I didn’t regret telling him I loved him. I still didn’t know what curse he carried, but I wanted him to know I was his. Even if he couldn’t say it back. Even if I loved him alone. Maybe that made me a fool. Maybe it made me a masochist. But it felt right.

We felt right.

I slipped from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded toward the bathroom. My legs wobbled for a moment, but there was no soreness, no ache. Splashing cold water on my face, I leaned toward the mirror, expecting to see the aftermath pale skin, hollow eyes.

Instead, I found none of that.

My complexion glowed. My cheeks were pink. My eyes bright. I looked… radiant. Like someone in love. Or someone reborn.

A grin tugged at my lips.

But when I turned my head to examine my neck, the smile vanished.

No puncture wounds. No swelling. No redness.

Instead, a faint shimmer danced beneath the skin. A tattoo-like mark delicate, ethereal shaped like a feather engulfed in flame.

Gosto had marked me.