Chapter 5
Creature
I've finally found her.
My precious dawn. My life. The one I will never let go.
I've been searching for a whole year. Flying through every borough, every street, following phantom traces of her soul that would slip away the moment I got close. Each night I'd tell myself, “She's out there, you'll find her.” And then nothing. Nothing but empty air where she should have been.
Now, here she is, in my arms. And I can’t feel anything other than rage because she almost died!
I look over at the broken body of the worthless piece of trash that tried to take her from me, that almost succeeded, and snarl. If I had been just one second later, I would have lost her and destroyed myself immediately after.
I trace my claws so carefully, so gently, over her soft skin, take a deep breath, and try to leash the fury within me threatening to break free.
She's here now. She didn't die. I found her. Finally, she's mine.
Cradling her close, I lean down to pick up her belongings, a purse and some small necklace. The lingering magical traces of a cloaking and protection spell flick against my senses, and my body begins to tremble.
This thing hid her from me.
My precious dawn.
My woman.
My mate.
At the thought of that word, the mate bond flares inside me, overwhelming even my indignation. It doesn't disappear—it transforms, becomes something hungrier, more desperate.
Need.
It burns through my veins, reshaping me from within. My wings twitch with the urge to envelop her, shield her from everything that isn't me. My claws itch to erase any trace that she was ever anywhere but at my side.
The mate bond demands me to complete the process I started when I bit her to save her life. To steal her, keep her, take her now.
The scent of her—cinnamon, pumpkin, spicy and sweet, with just a hint of vanilla and jasmine—mingles with the metallic tang of blood, and the combination makes every cell in my body sing.
I want her.
I want to stroke her perfect, beautiful body. Taste her pink lips. See if they're just as soft and delicious as I imagine. I want to see her beautiful green eyes widen when I enter her. Feel her breath against my skin as she pants and cries my name.
She was already a temptation. Something I longed to touch but also feared that if I did, I'd taint her with my hands. But now with the bond ignited? She's sin itself. And I'd be happy to hand myself over to her, give her my soul, if she so much as deemed it worthy.
That is the only thing holding me back. That I do not deserve her. And even if I were to spend the rest of my life trying to, I never would. So, I will not take her, not like this.
Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. So innocent, so peaceful, completely unaware of the monster holding her or the devious thoughts invading my mind. And I will keep her that way.
I would tear apart mountains to keep her safe. Drain oceans to see her smile. Bring her the moon if she wished it. There is nothing I wouldn't do, nothing I wouldn't become—anything she needs of me.
I've waited centuries for her, millennia, and I will continue to.
But I will not give up. I will not surrender. I will do whatever I must to win her heart.
That is how much she means to me.
I force myself to breathe, to rein in my carnal desires and bury it deep in my heart, along with my anger, and the loss I feel that a whole year I could have spent with her was taken from me.
And though I want to crush the talisman in my hand, I won't. It is her possession, and what is hers, I will not destroy.
Pulling her tightly to my chest, I use my body to shield her from the cold night air, lift off the ground, and fly to our home.
I land on the balcony carefully, cradling her closer.
As I push through the glass doors into the open living room, my heart begins to race.
The space feels different now—alive in ways it's never been.
Because everything I've chosen, every detail I've obsessed over, it was all for this moment. For her.
Every item was picked with the thought of her in mind. I lurked in the shadows of showrooms, listening to human women discuss what made them comfortable, what colors soothed them, what fabrics they wanted to sink into. I studied color theory and design in the hopes that she would be at peace here.
I positioned the armchair perfectly for the morning light, bought an assortment of the softest, most plush blankets, and stocked the kitchen with appliances I didn't need—but spent months learning to use.
I took cooking lessons. Practiced for hours, burning more meals than I could count, all to provide for my precious dawn in every way I could.
I can make her authentic Italian cuisine, soups, Asian food, and fresh bread. I can even bake. All skills I acquired in the desperate hope that someday, somehow, I'd find her.
And yet, it all suddenly seems so inadequate now that she's in my arms.
What if she doesn't like any of it? What if she doesn't like me?
After centuries of being a monster, a killer, and a forgotten statue—what if I've forgotten how to be anything else? What if I've waited all this time only to discover I don't know how to be what she needs?
The doubt hits me as I carry her into the main bedroom—her bedroom—that I've spent months perfecting but never dared to use.
What will happen when she wakes up and sees me?
I've heard enough crime reports over the years to know humans find killing someone... problematic. And that's exactly what I just did in front of her.
If I'd had more time, I would have torn that worthless human apart with my bare hands and scattered his remains across that alley, and it's exactly those thoughts that might scare her.
What if she fears me when she wakes? What if she runs?
Then I'll chase her. And I'll catch her. And she'll never escape me again.
I swallow back the exhilaration filling me at the thought and set her purse and the talisman carefully on the nightstand. Then lay her down on the pristine ivory silk.
The sight of her fiery red hair spreading across the pillows sends heat through my veins. She looks so small against the massive bed I chose for her—for us—and every cell in my body aches to worship her, to claim her. To make her mine completely.
I shake my head and focus on the beautiful woman in front of me. The knife wound needs to be examined, and I can't leave her covered in blood and alley filth. She shouldn't have to wake to the reminder of how close she came to death.
My precious dawn doesn't stir as I wipe away the dirt and blood from her face.
I listen to every beat of her heart, every soft exhale, matching my breathing to hers without meaning to.
Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my fingers, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek until I taste my own blood to keep focused on my task.
When I move to her hands, my heart aches. Her reddened knuckles and what were small cuts on her hands are already healing thanks to my venom, but they tell the story of her struggle.
She fought back fiercely.
Pride for her bravery mixes with the crushing defeat of failure in my chest. I was made to protect humans, to guard them from harm, yet I couldn't protect the one who matters most to me.
That thought stays with me as I wash her fingers, gently cleaning beneath her nails. But once that's done, I swallow hard. I need to check her wound, and to do that, I'll need to undress her.
My entire body goes rigid at the thought, the mate bond pulsing beneath my skin. It doesn't care that she's unconscious, that she can't choose this. It demands one thing—claim her, breed her. Complete the bond—and this dark, primal urge within me will not cease.
That's what the bond is. Not love. Not devotion. But something older, darker, a biological imperative.
But I am not the bond, it cannot overpower my awe at her brilliant soul and its radiance that called to me. I may not know her name, her history, or her dreams, but I know her essence, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed.
What I feel for her is so much more than desire or need, than obsession or devotion.
It's quiet, yet sure, a constant hum thrumming through my veins.
It is the way my chest aches when I look at her.
The way I already know I would give up everything—this home, this city, my own existence—just to see her happy, even if that happiness had nothing to do with me.
It's the terrifying truth that if she wakes up and tells me to go, I will. And it will destroy me.
Taking a deep breath, I bask in the warmth of that emotion, in how it settles in my bones. It’s what gives me the strength to move forward with my task.
I remove her shoes—simple black canvas, well-worn but meticulously clean.
Next, her socks, faded from countless washings, the elastic loose around her ankles.
Then I carefully cut away her blood-soaked jacket.
It's thin, barely adequate for the October chill, another sign of how she lives her life compromising function over comfort, necessity over need.
Her jeans and shirt show signs of wear, clearly second-hand but cared for.
And my heart aches at a world that's given her so little when she deserves so much more.
She deserves silk and cashmere, gold and diamonds—everything I can give her. Everything I will give her.
When I pull away the fabric of her shirt, stuck to her skin with dried blood, I finally see the wound in her side.
It's already healing—the edges sealed, new pink skin forming beneath the blood as my power works to repair what that terrible human tried to destroy.
I clean away the remaining blood with gentle strokes, fighting my desire with every breath.
Each brush of my fingers against her skin feeds my darkest fantasies—her legs spread wide beneath me, her back arching as I claim her. Her soft cries as I sink my fangs into the curve of her neck while thrusting deep inside her.