Chapter 9
RUNAWAY
Atlas watched Vesperin Vox leave the hotel in a flurry of white hair, pale skin, and flashing grey eyes.
He watched, and he waited, knowing that she would not see him unless he willed it.
As a Celestial, he could go anywhere, do anything. His power was unrivaled. But for her, he found he would give it all up.
All to wrap her in his arms and breathe her in. Show himself to her, instead of hiding under the guise of a shadow. The glimpses he had allowed her to catch of his shadowed form—recent and fleeting—had been the first in centuries. It was time…
Almost.
He had been so careful in his workings of fate, plucking the threads and weaving them at his will, aligning them along just the right path so that it would all fall into place.
The threads of fate were set, with a little help from him, of course. And now, all the Celestial had to do was sit back and watch, pray that everything continued to fall into line.
The freckled one, Kiton, had been a necessary tragedy, but Atlas knew that the only way everything else would align was if that had happened.
Atlas had not caused the accident, but he knew it would transpire, knew what it would cause in the future.
So, he had sat back, hands steepled, and watched, knowing the pain that Vesperin would endure would make her hate him.
Better she hated him because of Kiton, than let this life end in failure.
It was their last hope, after all.
They were all on a path of convergence—all five of them—and Atlas would watch, knowing he would be last. The sixth.
The twin moons on Sibeth glowed faintly in the neon haze of the capital. The pristine paved roads were bustling this time of night, when sin was everywhere.
His shadow flickered, hopping from one wall to the next, blending with the flashing lights seeping through the opened doors of clubs. Crowded, thick, and teeming with scantily dressed incubi and succubi on the prowl for a meal.
The Celestial could easily blend in…
He shouldn’t risk it. But tonight, restraint felt unbearable. He needed to be near her—not as a shadow, but as a man.
Slowly, Atlas let himself take shape; in the darkness of a hidden alcove, his shadow grew firm. Black hair, black eyes concealed with a simple glamor, turning them into a murky brown shade—forgettable. Strips of red and purple lights turned his black coat into a shimmering blur.
A whiff of cherries passed, and Atlas stepped out of the alcove at just the right moment, a smile tugging at his lips—he knew it would be the right moment; his threads were not nearby, but he would be a fool to mistake that scent for anything less than what it was.
Vesperin breezed by, either unaware or uncaring of all the eyes on her—watchful purple.
Even a few humans or other species stopped to take her in as she marched down the street.
Her white hair billowed behind her freely, wind from the trains overhead blowing down upon the street.
Her skintight black pants clung to her lithe hips, the harness around her waist accentuating her curves.
Her lips were still swollen, hair slightly mussed.
And Atlas knew why.
Her steps didn’t falter, even though he knew she would still be sore.
She was a girl on a mission.
The Celestial leaned against the wall of a building, the metal hot from the pulsing bass thumping within, the scent of liquor clinging to the air around it.
Bodies were pressing on each other as they walked down the street, hundreds of paths intersecting, but only one the Celestial truly cared about.
His threads of fate showed him everything.
He could know a life’s entire path from the moment they were born until their death, and each decision that could create millions more decisions, those spawning thousands more paths—a tangled web of countless paths and opportunities and heartbreaks.
All at his fingertips. It was tiring, to know so much.
That was why he focused on the important things, not just the large things—sometimes the smallest of decisions, like a burnt piece of toast, could change the entire trajectory of a life.
Atlas was able to see it all. But he barely bothered. Except when it came to her—and her Soulbonds. Those five, he had a vested interest in. As well as all the others who sought to do them harm or keep them apart.
In knowing the important things, Atlas left the inconsequential bits hidden. So, he had no idea what was to happen when a series of events occurred.
An incubus walked by, juggling a plastic cup and a pastry in one hand.
He distractedly laughed with a friend, bumping into a pole and making the cup fall from his hands, the liquid within splashing onto the street.
A succubus tripped in her haste to get away from the puddle, making her shoulder check some human hanging off the arm of a wolf shifter, the tail behind the shifter swishing in ire as she snapped at the succubus and reached forward to shove her back.
The succubus stumbled further… and that forced Vesperin, who was minding her own business, to get caught in the crosshairs.
The succubus fell back into Vesperin, forcing her off-balance—right into the wall where Atlas stood.
And, as if without his permission, his hands lashed out to catch her before her face could smack right into the metal.
Time slowed.
Vesperin’s hands came up to grasp his forearms as he held her, fingers tightening on her waist, the other on her shoulder. Her cherry scent was dark with pain and thick with lingering arousal. She smelled like sweat and pleasure.
His breath caught, stuttering out of him.
The sound of her surprise made his whole body awaken, as if he had been dreaming this whole time and only just snapped out of it. She was so close. She pulled away, pale lashes blinking up at him. His hands hovered midair, missing her.
"Thank you." Her husky voice washed over him, drowning out the sounds of the city.
Before he could speak, she was gone, drifting through the crowd and vanishing like a dream.
Cyrus woke up in the hotel room alone. The sheets still smelled like Vesperin, but the bed was cold.
In the aftermath of feeding came clarity.
He had really fucked up.
It wasn’t the first time.
Prince Cyrus Soltren of Sibeth often loved to steal away. The heir to a throne he didn’t want, and a father who never failed to lord his power over him, forcing Cyrus to carry out princely duties.
His father never hurt him—no, he saved that cruelty for others, making Cyrus watch.
Called to the throne room, standing before incubi and succubi prisoners, forced to choose one to live, or all would die… Finding one-night stands strung up on the palace balcony, dead bodies swinging in the high winds.
He was not allowed attachments. They made him weak. Or so said his father.
So, when Cyrus snuck out one night, tucking his red hair under the hood of a dark cloak and venturing into the outermost towns of the capital, he never expected to stumble upon her.
Vesperin Vox.
A human slave, purchased at an underground auction.
The mere thought made anger simmer in him. The auctions were wicked, depraved—humans stolen from other planets, smuggled in cargo ships, and paraded naked on stages as incubi and succubi bid for their so-called assets. Most were bought as easy food supplies, raped repeatedly.
So, when Cyrus had ventured into the night-soaked town and found a shivering Vesperin huddled on a narrow street, eyes filled with tears and bruises blooming on her skin, he snapped.
He slaughtered her buyers and took her for himself, letting her stay at one of his homes nearer to the coast—far from the capital and his father.
She melted into him when their hands first brushed, trembling but hoping he wouldn’t hurt her as she whispered, "We’re Soulbonds."
And with her soft, hesitant trust, Cyrus did the unthinkable…
He starved himself, unable to stand the idea of feeding from someone else after meeting her, smelling her sweet cherry scent.
His downfall came after months of hunger, watching her breathe, her delicate throat work as she sucked on grapes and nibbled on cheeses in the privacy of his cottage—a place for just the two of them.
One night, under the sparkling, clear sky, the curtains billowed in the open air as a breeze from the ocean blew in from the windows.
She lay so beautiful in the bed—alone, because he did not trust himself to share it with her.
His body ached, spasming with hunger, and she looked so enticing among the sheets, brown hair splayed over the pillow, chest rising and falling beautifully with steady breaths as she dreamed. He told himself to leave, to run—he had no right to touch her like this.
But his body wouldn’t listen.
He found himself walking to her, hovering over her in bed, feeling her sweet exhales, cooling his lips as he leaned down and tasted her as she dreamed.
He kissed her and felt his hunger rage, making him take more.
His hands wandered, brushing her nightgown-clad chest, feeling the shape of her.
And when she woke up and found him hovering over her, she did not scream, but her soft, biteable lips parted.
"Cyrus, what are you doing?" she asked, tone breathy.
"Make me stop… if you can," he replied. "Hit me, knock me out. Anything." His hands were firm on her skin.
She saw the war he waged with himself, and she only looked up at him with knowing brown eyes and said, "Take from me, Cyrus. It’s okay, I know you need it."
Those words had been his undoing as his hunger consumed him, making sparks of red fill the air and his purple eyes alight with power as he all but ripped away the sheets from her body, the tangled sheets kicked down to their feet.