Chapter 6
Sienna
I remember the heat.
No—I remember him. Those glowing eyes burning into mine. The press of fangs against my skin. The fire that raced through my veins, reshaping me, claiming me, marking me as something... else. And then—nothing.
My body feels like it's floating on clouds.
No, that's not right. It's a mattress—the kind I've only dreamed about but never thought I'd ever get to touch—supporting my every curve like it was made for me.
The pillow cradles my head perfectly, not too soft, not too firm.
And the sheets feel like liquid silk against my bare skin.
Did I die?
My eyes flutter open, and I have to blink several times before the world stops spinning.
I push myself up slowly, my arms shaking with the effort, then lean back against a headboard that feels like heaven—soft, plush velvet that seems to mold to my back.
That's when I feel a twinge in my side, right where I was stabbed.
My trembling hands fly to my side. I glance down expecting to be covered in blood, but there's none there. A large black silk shirt that definitely isn't mine envelopes my body. My fingers fumble with the fabric as I check and find that I'm still in my underwear and bra.
My breathing quickens as I pull up the silk shirt to examine my side, finding only a small pink, slightly tender scar where a gaping wound should be.
That's not possible. That's not fucking possible.
I know I was stabbed. I felt the pain. I saw the blood!
I scan the room, searching for some sort of answer. It's massive—easily three times the size of my studio apartment—with soft gray walls and blackout curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows.
The rug beneath the bed looks so plush my toes ache to sink into it. Custom furniture—sleek, modern, expensive—fills the space like someone staged it for a magazine. And there is an actual marble fireplace. A fireplace. In a bedroom. Everything about it screams wealth and luxurious design.
But something prickles along my spine. A feeling of being watched. My breath catches in my throat as I scan the room again, slower this time.
And there—in the corner where the shadows gather thickest—is... him.
"You're awake." His voice rolls through the room like distant thunder across mountains, making every hair on my body stand at attention.
He steps from the shadows, and time stops.
He's massive. Eight feet at least, maybe more. Gray skin that looks like polished stone, large wings folded against his back, and eyes glowing amber in the dim light as he watches me.
My hand flies to my chest, pressing against my racing heart. And the moment I freeze, he does too. Like a predator trying not to spook its prey.
His eyes flash, briefly glowing brighter before the light disappears completely. Then he raises his massive hands, palms out in surrender. "I didn't mean to startle you," he says, his voice even lower, softer now. "The last thing I want is for you to be afraid of me."
Am I afraid of him?
I should be. Every rational part of my brain is screaming at me to run, hide, do something other than sit here staring at him like he's a five-course meal and I'm starving.
He killed someone, brought me somewhere I don't know, undressed me, and did something impossible to heal me. I should be terrified.
But I want him. Want to be closer to him, learn more about him, understand him, figure out what he is and how he's lived.
I could say it's my natural curiosity, that it's simply because of my background in anthropology. But that would be a lie.
I don't want to study him; I want to fuck him.
I want to know what his hands would feel like on my skin. How his body would feel pressed against mine.
I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. I know that, I do, but I can't help myself.
Every time he breathes it draws my eyes to his expansive, muscular chest. I've never seen so many abs in my life.
And his size... he's so much bigger than me. And I can't help but wonder if he's proportional everywhere.
I want him to spread me open on this bed and take me. Hard, and rough, and raw. I want it so badly my pussy clenches and I have to squeeze my thighs tight together.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
"I'm not afraid. I'm... confused," I finally manage, my voice cracking on the last word. I clear my throat, needing water. Needing space, needing him to stop looking at me like he wants to devour me because if he doesn’t, I’ll let him.
I lick my lips, and his eyes follow my tongue.
His pupils dilate, his chest expanding with a sharp breath, his hands flexing at his sides.
He wants me too.
The sexual tension is so thick I can taste it, and it fills me with pride.
This man is so strong, so dangerous, and yet he wants me. The fact that someone so magnificent could desire me just as strongly as I do him makes me feel powerful. Like a temptress, a goddess. A queen.
I want to test him. Push him further. See how much control he really has and what it would take for him to snap.
His eyes scan my body, like a slow caress from head to toe. And when he speaks his voice is lower, rougher than before. "May I get you some water?"
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
He steps toward the dresser then pours me a glass of water from a beautiful crystal dispenser. Smiling, he approaches the bed slowly, deliberately, as if he believes that if he moves too quickly, I’ll run. He hands me the glass from a distance, and I can’t help but find his care charming.
Our fingers brush as I take the cup, electricity shooting up my arm. His breath catches and mine stops entirely.
What the hell was that?
It’s as if my body recognizes him, responding to his presence with a visceral pull I can't explain. A part of me wants to run, but a deeper, more primal part wants to move closer.
I drain the water, and the coolness provides me with a distraction from his intensity. Helping me remember what’s really important here. I need to focus. No matter how attractive he is, I need answers, and this is not the time for whatever this is.
“What happened to me? How did I get here and get in... this?” I pluck at the shirt softly.
His expression shifts, pain flickering across his features so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined it.
"I saved your life...” he begins, then his jaw clenches so hard it begins to tick. "I changed your clothes because they were soaked in blood. Yours and... his. But I swear to you, I did not touch you inappropriately."
I believe him. I shouldn’t. But something in the way he says it, his voice a mixture of anger and such deep sincerity. The way his eyes beg for me to trust him touches my heart. And that scares me.
I take a shaky breath. “What are you?”
His body goes still, but his eyes flicker through a mirage of emotions, and the ones I recognize—shame, guilt, fear—cut at me.
I hate that I hurt him with my question. Before I can stop myself, I reach for him. And that seems to jerk him back to the present, away from whatever nightmare he was reliving.
He takes a step back and I immediately drop my hand to my side.
“I’m sorry I—”
“No.” He swallows hard. “I’m happy you asked, but I... don’t want you to be ashamed of me.”
I open my mouth to say I won’t be, but I close it without speaking. Because once he does share his story, I just might be.
He sits at the far edge of the bed, slightly curved like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and when he speaks his voice sounds strained.
"I was created long ago, near the time of the first humans. My kind were tasked with guarding yours from dark forces—demons and creatures that could corrupt souls.”
Created. Not born.
Created. To fight demons.
"Demons are real," I breathe.
"Yes." His voice is steady, patient. "And so are the gods who made us to fight them."
He tells me about battles that lasted millennia, wars I've never read about in any history book. About beings of pure light and creatures of absolute darkness. How his kind stood between them and humanity. And as he speaks, I find myself leaning forward, drawn to his story, his voice, him.
"Many of my siblings fell to darkness or simply disappeared.
But I..." His voice grows heavy with something that makes my chest ache. Regret, maybe, or despair so deep it's carved into his bones. "I questioned everything. The nature of good and evil, whether the beings I had destroyed could be saved. If I had the right to judge them at all, when truly I didn’t understand them. I’d never been taught how.”
The pain in his voice cuts away at me. This isn't ancient history to him—these are his sins, his wounds that haven't healed despite the passage of time, and he’s offering them up to me.
I can't even fathom the weight of what he's describing. Millennia of killing, of wondering if he'd condemned beings who could have been saved. The guilt alone would crush me.
Compared to him, my regrets are nothing. Even those I’m still healing from and in a way, using as a shield to hide behind.
I've told myself I need to change, to grow into the person I want to become, yet I often lose the confidence to fully commit. I wonder if I even have the right—to be happy, to be loved. To believe I deserve these things at all.
But watching this man be so brave, so vulnerable, and find the strength to keep going even after everything he’s been through, lights a fire within me that I don’t think will ever burn out. Because he’s trusting me with the parts of himself that he’s most ashamed of.
He didn't have to tell me any of this. He could have deflected, could have given me some sanitized version of his past. But he chose honesty.
Chose to show me exactly who he is—the good and the bad—and let me decide if that's something I can accept. And I think that clear, raw honesty is something I’ve been waiting my entire life for.
"What did you do?” I ask quietly. “How did you learn to understand them?"