Chapter 4 Cyprian
Eleven fifty-five.
The digital clock mounted on the volcanic stone wall counts down with agonizing precision, each minute ticking past while I sit here on the edge of the reinforced massage table like some pathetic creature desperate for scraps of attention.
Five minutes until Tamsin Beck walks through that door with her compact frame and sharp tongue and impossibly soft human hands that somehow manage to crack through petrified tissue like it's nothing more than dried clay.
I shouldn't be waiting in the dark like this, shouldn't be sitting here in the dim orange glow of the heat lamps with my wings folded tightly against my back and my hands resting on my thighs like a supplicant awaiting judgment.
I'm Cyprian, director of Obsidian Aegis Security, commander of operatives across three continents. I've survived wars, plagues, and the collapse of empires.
Yet here I sit, counting down minutes like some lovesick fool.
The room is sweltering, the volcanic heat wrapping around me like a second skin, thick and oppressive, carrying the scent of eucalyptus and sage through the humid air.
I've been here for twenty minutes already, stripped down to nothing but the loose linen pants I wear for these sessions, my slate-gray skin absorbing the heat while the crystalline tracery beneath pulses with a steady, healthy glow.
My left shoulder blade is stiff—not locked, not calcified, just tight with a dull ache that radiates down my spine and into the base of my wing joint.
Manageable. Tolerable.
Not the reason I'm here.
I close my eyes and exhale slowly, forcing myself to acknowledge the truth I've been avoiding for the past three weeks: the petrification isn't why I keep coming back.
She is. Because of the way she climbs onto this table without hesitation, her small hands pressing into my back with a confidence that shouldn't exist in someone so fragile, scolding me like I'm a disobedient child, her voice sharp and unapologetic, completely unbothered by the fact that I could crush her with one hand if I chose to.
Because of the way she makes me feel lighter—not physically, but somewhere deeper, in a place I thought had calcified long ago.
And I'm terrified of what that means.
Eleven fifty-seven.
I open my eyes and stare at the door, my chest tight with an anticipation I can't suppress.
Three more minutes. The rational part of my mind—the part that's kept me alive for over eight hundred years—tells me this is dangerous, that I'm allowing myself to become dependent on a human, that I'm compromising my carefully constructed emotional defenses for the sake of temporary relief.
But the rest of me—the part that's been slowly waking up over the past three weeks—doesn't care.
Because when she touches me, the mineral death doesn't just ease.
It disappears.
Completely.
For the first time in centuries, I can move without pain, can extend my wings without feeling the grinding calcification in my joints, can breathe without the crushing weight of petrification pressing down on my chest.
And when she leaves, the cold returns.
It's not the biological failure that used to plague me—not the calcification spreading through my musculature. It's the absence of her warmth, the absence of her presence, the absence of the sharp, sarcastic commentary that somehow manages to cut through the suffocating silence of my existence.
I'm becoming addicted to her.
And I hate it.
Eleven fifty-eight.
The door handle turns.
I don't move, remain seated on the edge of the table with my posture rigid and my expression carefully neutral. I won't let her see how much I've been waiting. I won't give her that power.
The door swings open.
Tamsin steps inside.
She's wearing black leggings and a faded gray hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun secured with what appears to be a ballpoint pen.
There are faint shadows under her eyes, and her skin has a dull, exhausted pallor that wasn't there three weeks ago.
She looks tired.
She looks like she hasn't slept in days.
And she looks absolutely unbothered by my presence.
"Hey," she says, kicking the door shut behind her. She drops her bag on the supply station and immediately starts stripping off her hoodie. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was a nightmare."
She's not late. She's exactly on time. But I don't correct her.
"Good evening," I say.
She glances at me, one eyebrow raised. "Good evening? What are you, a Victorian butler?"
I don't respond.
She grins. "Right. Forgot. You're, like, eight hundred years old or whatever. You probably are a Victorian butler."
"I'm not a butler."
"Could've fooled me with that posture." She walks over to the supply station and grabs a bottle of volcanic oil. "Seriously, do you ever relax? You're sitting on a massage table like you're about to give a corporate presentation."
I shift slightly, adjusting my wings. "I'm relaxed."
"Sure you are." She pours oil into her palms and rubs them together, warming it up. "Alright, big guy. Face down. Let's see what kind of disaster you've turned yourself into this week."
I stand and move to the table, lowering myself onto the plush furs. The padded cradle supports my face, and I extend my arms at my sides, my wings folding carefully against my back. The left one is still tight, the membrane pulled taut over the bone spurs.
Tamsin walks around the table, assessing. I can hear her footsteps, light and quick, as she circles me like a predator evaluating prey.
Except I am not the prey.
I am four hundred pounds of stone and muscle and ancient, barely restrained power.
And she is a hundred-and-twenty-pound human with soft skin and fragile bones.
And yet, somehow, she is the one in control.
"Jesus Christ," she mutters. "Your left shoulder is a mess. What did you do? Sit at a desk for twelve hours straight?"
"Fourteen," I say.
"Fourteen." She sighs. "Of course. Because why would you take care of yourself when you could just work yourself into the ground like a masochist?"
"I have responsibilities."
"Yeah, and you're going to have a permanently calcified shoulder blade if you keep this up.
" She climbs onto the table, positioning herself above my lower back.
Her knees press into the furs on either side of my spine.
"I'm serious, Cyprian. You can't keep doing this.
I don't care how important your security empire is.
If you lock up completely, you're not going to be running anything. "
I do not respond.
She places her hands on my shoulder blades and leans forward, driving her weight down through her palms.
The pressure is immediate. Intense. Her small hands press into the rigid stone surface of my back, and I feel the faint give beneath her touch, the calcified muscle softening under the heat of her palms.
"There it is," she murmurs. "Right there. You've got a massive knot right under your scapula. This is going to take a while."
She shifts her weight, repositioning herself, and I feel the warmth of her thighs pressing against my sides. She is straddling me now, her compact frame balanced above my spine, her hands working methodically across my upper back.
I close my eyes and focus on the sensation.
Her touch is firm. Confident. She does not hesitate, does not pull back when she encounters resistance. She just leans in harder, using her body weight to drive her knuckles into the calcified tissue, breaking up the adhesions with a precision that should not be possible for someone so small.
And then I smell it.
Exhaustion.
It rolls off her skin in waves, a sour, acrid scent that cuts through the eucalyptus and sage. It is the smell of someone who has been running on fumes for too long, someone who has pushed their body past its limits and is now operating on sheer willpower alone.
I open my eyes.
She is still working, her hands moving across my back in steady, deliberate strokes. But I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw is clenched, the faint tremor in her fingers.
She is exhausted.
She is burning herself out.
And I am furious.
At her.
At the world that has forced her into this position. At the economic system that demands she work two jobs just to survive. At the entitled, fragile humans who sit in her daytime clinic and demand her time and energy without offering her anything in return.
At myself, for not intervening sooner.
"You are working too much," I say.
Her hands pause. "Excuse me?"
"You are exhausted. I can smell it."
She laughs. It is a short, sharp sound, devoid of humor. "Oh, you can smell it? That's great. That's really great. Thanks for pointing that out."
"I am not mocking you."
"Could've fooled me." She resumes her work, pressing harder into my shoulder blade. "Yeah, I'm tired. Welcome to being a millennial with student debt and a broken healthcare system. We're all tired."
"You should not have to work this hard."
"Well, I do. So unless you've got a magic solution to my financial problems, I'd appreciate it if you kept your observations to yourself."
I do not respond immediately. The silence stretches between us, heavy with something neither of us wants to name.
"How many clients?" I ask finally.
"What?"
"Before you arrive here. How many clients do you see?"
She sighs, her hands stilling on my shoulder. "Why does it matter?"
"Because your physical health directly impacts the quality of your work. I am not being charitable. I am being practical."
"Right. Practical." She resumes the massage, her strokes less fluid now, more aggressive. Defensive. "Three. Four if someone cancels late. Then I rush over here, do a midnight session, and try not to fall asleep on the drive home."
The rage intensifies. Four clients. Sixteen-hour days. And she is still struggling.
"That is unsustainable," I say quietly.