Chapter 2 #2
Seraph sets down his glass with a soft clink that seems too loud in the quiet room.
"You may put your things in the wardrobe," he says, gesturing to an elaborate piece of furniture against the far wall.
It's massive, easily eight feet tall, carved from white wood with silver inlay depicting more of those ambiguous flower-or-flame patterns.
"Third shelf from the bottom. I've cleared it for your use. "
Third shelf from the bottom. Out of what looks like ten total shelves.
One shelf. That's what I get.
"Seraph, please—"
"Third shelf, Raven."
The command in his voice makes something in my chest twist. Not the binding, no, I'd know that pull, that golden thread that connects me to Croesus, and to each of these creatures in turn.
This is something else. Something I don't want to examine too closely.
Something that feels like my body wants to obey just because he told it to.
I stumble into the room, my legs barely cooperating. The door closes behind me with a soft snick that sounds too final. Too permanent.
Everything is too sensitive. The movement of my clothing sends sensations through me, whispering obscenely.
The fabric clings to my thighs, my hips, everywhere.
The gold jewelry at my throat and wrists feels too tight, too present, the chains a constant reminder of weight and pressure.
Even my boots feel wrong, the leather suddenly too constricting.
Even breathing feels obscene, each inhale making my chest rise and fall in a way that draws attention to how badly I need to be touched.
The wardrobe is across the room. Maybe twenty feet away. It might as well be across the ocean.
I make it three steps before my knees buckle.
"Careful." Seraph is there instantly, his hand on my elbow. His touch is cool and steady and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to press into it. Not to turn in his grip and plaster myself against him and beg.
God. When did I become this person?
"I can't do this," I whisper. The words feel scraped raw, pulled from somewhere deep in my chest. "You have to let me purge it. I'll—I'll lose control—"
"Will you?" His fingers tighten slightly.
Not painful. Just... grounding. An anchor in the storm raging through my body.
"I wonder. You absorbed an archangel's death, Raven.
Held it long enough to kill Raphael with his own power.
Walked out of the House of Gold with a binding that should have destroyed you.
And now you're telling me one client's lust is too much? "
"That was different—"
"How?"
Because this feels like it's going to tear me apart from the inside out.
Because every second that passes makes it worse, exponentially, until I can't remember what it felt like to exist in my body without this constant, clawing need.
Because I've never wanted anything as badly as I want release right now, and that terrifies me more than Raphael's death ever did.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, I wrench away from his grip, immediately regretting the loss of that cool, steadying touch, and force myself to walk. One foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each step its own small victory and its own small torture.
The wardrobe swims in my vision, white wood blurring at the edges. When I finally reach it, I yank open the third shelf from the bottom and shove my duffle inside without even unzipping it. Without unpacking.
I can't. Can't focus. Can't think about anything except the fire under my skin.
Behind me, Seraph moves. I hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of him settling into what's probably a chair. The seating area. He's going to sit there and watch me fall apart.
"Very good," he says, and the praise shouldn't make my stomach flip. Shouldn't make the lust spike even higher, shouldn't make some traitorous part of me want to earn more of those words. "Now. Let's see how long you can hold it."
I grip the edge of the wardrobe, my knuckles white.
In the mirror on the inside of the door, I see myself, eyes too glassy, fever-dark and desperate.
Lips parted because I can't get enough air through my nose.
Body trembling with barely restrained need.
Hair falling around my face in dark strands that stick to my damp neck.
I look wrecked.
I look ruined.
Behind me, Seraph's reflection. Perfect posture in that white velvet chair, legs crossed at the ankle. Silver eyes calculating. A small, satisfied smile playing at his lips like he's watching a particularly interesting experiment unfold.
He knows exactly what he's doing to me.
And we both know I'm going to find a way to make him pay for it.
"Control is the only true perfection," he says softly, echoing his earlier words. Like he wants me to prove him wrong.
Or prove him right.
I close the wardrobe door, gently, despite wanting to slam it, and turn to face him. My hands are still shaking. My whole body is shaking. But I meet his eyes anyway, channeling every ounce of stubbornness I have into that gaze.
"If you won't let me purge it properly," I say through gritted teeth, forcing each word out clear and deliberate, "I'll find another way."
His smile sharpens. Transforms from satisfied to something hungrier. Something that makes the lust in my belly twist into something even more dangerous. "I'm counting on it."
The lust burns hotter.
And I realize with sinking certainty that this is exactly what he wanted all along.
He didn't deny me the purge because he wants to test my control.
He denied me because he wants to see what I'll do when I break.