For years, Michael, the powerful archangel and most feared of demon hunters, has been inexplicably obsessed with Lux, the Devil's youngest daughter. A forbidden obsession, hidden behind his duty and an ancient hatred. So when Lux falls into the clut...
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Lux isn't pacing the room only because I'm holding her against me, her burning back, doing its best to calm the turmoil in my chest. Too many things remain unexplained, too many questions echo in my mind, calling for answers that are slow to come.
Until Tristan reappears, a cigarette in hand, heading toward the window without even sparing us a glance.
He opens the panes with barely concealed urgency, slipping the cigarette between his lips before lighting it with a gesture I can't quite make out. The tip glows, a small ember in the darkness of his living room. He inhales deeply, letting the tobacco fill his lungs, and I watch as he exhales slowly, his breath laden with instant relief. His eyelids close briefly as he tries to calm his thoughts, but when he opens them again, surprise quickly gives way to curiosity as he looks at us.
His brows furrow, and his body tenses for a moment—a natural reaction to the scene before him: Lux and me, entwined. My fingers brush over her wrists in a soothing gesture, attempting to contain the storm brewing within her. The strangeness of our posture doesn't escape him, but for now, he seems to decide against questioning it.
"I think I'm not the only one with things to explain," he murmurs, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"I know, but that will have to wait. We are not the priority," Lux replies firmly.
We.
The word resonates within me like a sweet melody. I wish she would repeat it every day, carve it into reality. That single word makes tangible what we are, what we hide from the rest of the world.
"We?" Tristan repeats, his brow arching, his tone laced with challenge. "Because between you and him, there is a 'we'?"
Lux tilts her head slightly, a silent reprimand that immediately makes Tristan lower his gaze. She pulls away from me, her warmth vanishing as she steps forward to join him by the window. A faint draft sneaks in, making a strand of her hair dance.
I watch their interaction, fascinated by their dynamic.
"We'll talk about that later. There's something more urgent," she declares, hoping to brush off Tristan's questions.
But his sharp gaze locks onto her, even more inquisitive now.
"You're hiding Icarion in my home, and now you bring an archangel here—the worst of them all—but there's something more urgent?"
The calm he's trying to project contrasts cruelly with the troubled tremor in his voice, thick with a worry he can't quite hide. A justified fear, especially in my presence.
Tristan has been fortunate enough to never truly encounter an archangel—never arrested, never interrogated, never tortured. None of us have ever had the chance to get this young demon in our hands. None except, perhaps, Icarion, judging by their strange exchange. And yet, his lack of scars doesn't keep him from staying wary.
