Chapter 18
I'm watching my entire life get loaded into a private elevator.
And I mean that literally.
Literally.
Three cardboard boxes held together with packing tape and hope. Two trash bags full of clothes that have seen better days. A duffel bag containing my massage supplies, my laptop, and approximately seven different brands of discount hand lotion.
That's it.
That's everything I own.
And it's being carried into the private elevator of Obsidian Aegis Headquarters by security personnel wearing tactical gear that probably costs more than my entire net worth.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
I stand in the underground parking garage, wrapped in Cyprian's massive coat because I left my apartment wearing nothing but leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, and watch as my pathetic collection of belongings disappears into the most expensive building I've ever seen.
"This is insane," I say.
Cyprian's hand settles on the small of my back.
Warm.
Steady.
Possessive.
"You are moving into your home," he says. "There is nothing insane about that."
I look up at him.
He's standing beside me in the dim garage lighting, seven feet of slate-gray skin and massive folded wings, his amber veins glowing a soft, contented gold. He looks completely at ease. Like this is the most normal thing in the world.
Like I'm not hauling trash bags full of old socks into a building that probably costs more per square foot than my entire apartment complex.
"Cyprian," I say slowly. "I own three forks. Total. And one of them is bent."
"I have forks."
"I'm sure you do. I'm sure you have very expensive forks."
"They are adequate."
I snort.
"Adequate. Right."
His hand slides up my spine, his clawed fingers threading gently through my hair.
"You are overthinking this," he says.
"I'm really not."
"You are mine. You belong with me. Therefore, you belong here."
I stare at him.
At his absolute certainty.
At the way he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
And I realize something.
He's not going to let me spiral.
He's not going to let me second-guess this.
He's just going to keep stating facts until I accept them.
"You're impossible," I say.
"I am aware."
The elevator doors open.
Kael steps out, nodding once.
"Everything is secure, sir. Ms. Beck's belongings have been placed in the primary suite."
"Thank you, Kael."
Kael's gaze flicks to me.
There's something in his expression—not quite approval, but close.
"Welcome home, Ms. Beck," he says again.
And then he's gone.
Cyprian's hand tightens on my back.
"Come," he says. "Let me show you your home."
The elevator ride is silent.
Not uncomfortable.
Just... surreal.
I'm standing in a private elevator with mirrored walls and soft lighting, watching the floor numbers climb higher and higher, wrapped in a coat that smells like volcanic stone and amber.
Cyprian stands beside me, one sprawling, towering frame resting on my shoulder.
He hasn't let go of me since we left my apartment.
Not in the transport.
Not in the garage.
Not now.
It's like he's afraid I'll disappear if he stops touching me.
The elevator slows.
The doors open.
And I step into another world.
The penthouse is massive.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominate the entire far wall, offering a panoramic view of the city's industrial district. The skyline glitters in the distance, but closer, I can see the sprawling factories and warehouses that make up the working heart of the city.
The space itself is minimalist.
Clean lines. Black glass. Polished obsidian surfaces. Everything is sleek and modern and temperature-controlled to perfection.
It's beautiful.
It's also completely terrifying.
"This is where you live," I say.
It's not a question.
"This is where we live," Cyprian corrects.
I walk slowly into the main living area.
My footsteps echo on the polished floor.
There's a massive sectional sofa—clearly custom-made to accommodate his size—positioned in front of a fireplace that looks like it was carved from a single piece of volcanic rock.
To the left, an open kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances and a breakfast bar made of black marble.
To the right, a hallway that presumably leads to the bedroom.
And everywhere—everywhere—there are small signs that he's been preparing for me.
A soft throw blanket draped over the arm of the sofa.
A pair of slippers—human-sized—sitting neatly by the door.
A bookshelf that's been cleared to make room for my things.
My throat tightens.
"You did all this," I say.
"Yes."
"When?"
"While you were packing."
I turn to look at him.
He's standing in the doorway, his wings folded tight against his back, watching me with an intensity that makes my chest ache.
"I wanted you to feel welcome," he says quietly.
"Cyprian—"
"I know this is a significant change. I know you are accustomed to your independence. But I need you to understand something."
He crosses the room in three strides.
His hands cup my face, his claws retracted, his touch impossibly gentle.
"You are not a guest here," he says. "You are not temporary. This is your home. Permanently. And I will do everything in my power to ensure you are comfortable."
I blink rapidly.
I will not cry.
I have cried enough in the past forty-eight hours.
"You're doing the intense thing again," I say, my voice shaky.
"I am aware."
"It's a lot."
"I do not care."
I laugh.
It's half sob, half genuine amusement.
"You're ridiculous."
"I am devoted."
"Same thing."
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone.
"Come," he says. "Let me show you the rest."
The bedroom is obscene.
That's the only word for it.
The bed is massive—easily king-sized, possibly custom-made—with a heavy obsidian frame and plush bedding in shades of charcoal and deep gold.
But that's not what catches my attention.
What catches my attention is the fact that one entire side of the bed has been transformed into what can only be described as a nest.
Soft pillows. Thick blankets. A heated mattress pad. Everything arranged in a way that's clearly designed for someone much smaller than Cyprian.
For me.
"You built me a nest," I say.
"Yes."
"In your bed."
"Our bed."
I walk over to it slowly.
The blankets are incredibly soft—some kind of high-thread-count material that probably costs more than my rent used to.
I sit down.
The mattress is perfect.
Not too firm. Not too soft.
And warm.
So warm.
"This is insane," I say.
Cyprian moves to stand in front of me.
His frame blocks out the light from the windows, casting me in shadow.
"You require a specific sleep environment," he says. "I researched optimal conditions for human comfort. Temperature regulation. Pillow density. Mattress firmness."
I stare up at him.
"You researched how I sleep?"
"Yes."
"That's—"
"Necessary."
I open my mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
"You're unhinged," I say finally.
"I am thorough."
"You're obsessed."
"I am in love."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
I look up at him—At this towering, ancient, terrifying creature who has spent the last forty-eight hours tearing himself apart because he thought he'd lost me.
And I realize something.
He's not going to apologize for this.
He's not going to tone it down.
He's just going to keep being overwhelming and intense and completely devoted.
And I'm going to have to learn to live with it.
"Okay," I say.
He blinks.
"Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay. You win. This is our bed. I live here now. You're allowed to obsess over my sleep environment."
Something shifts in his expression.
Relief.
Raw, overwhelming relief.
He drops to his knees in front of me.
His hands settle on my thighs, his touch feather-light despite the size of his claws.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
"For what?"
"For staying."
My throat tightens.
"Where else would I go?"
"I do not know. But I was terrified you would find one."
I reach out and cup his face.
His skin is warm.
Smooth.
Completely free of the cold, calcified texture that used to plague him.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say. "You're stuck with me."
"Good."
He leans forward and kisses me.
Slow.
Deep.
Devastating.
His hands slide up my thighs, his claws carefully retracted, his touch reverent.
When he pulls back, his amber eyes are glowing.
"I need to feed you," he says.
I blink.
"What?"
"You have not eaten since yesterday. I can smell it."
"That's—"
"Non-negotiable."
He stands, lifting me effortlessly, and carries me out of the bedroom.
I don't bother protesting.
I've learned that arguing with him when he's in provider mode is completely pointless.
The kitchen is stocked.
Not just stocked.
Aggressively stocked.
I open the refrigerator and stare.
There are at least six bottles of premium organic orange juice.
The expensive kind.
The kind I used to stare at in the grocery store and think, Maybe someday.
"You bought out the entire juice aisle," I say.
"I wanted to ensure you had options."
"Cyprian. This is twelve bottles of orange juice."
"Six."
"There are more in the other refrigerator."
I turn slowly.
"The other refrigerator?"
He gestures to a second, smaller fridge built into the kitchen island.
I walk over and open it.
More orange juice.
Also: fresh fruit. Yogurt. Cheese. Deli meat. Everything neatly organized and labeled.
"You have a refrigerator dedicated to my snacks," I say.
"Yes."
"This is insane."
"This is practical."
I close the fridge and turn to face him.
He's standing in the middle of the kitchen, his wings folded tight, watching me with an expression that can only be described as smug satisfaction.
"You're enjoying this," I say.
"I am."
"You like taking care of me."
"Yes."
"It's a control thing, isn't it?"
"It is a devotion thing."
I snort.
"Same thing."
He crosses the room in two strides.
His hands settle on my waist, lifting me effortlessly onto the kitchen counter.
I'm suddenly at eye level with him.
His amber veins pulse with soft gold light.