Azrael's POV
*****
Beach House, 8:55 Am
He sat on a wooden chair, unable to take his eyes away from the person lying on the bed.
Celeste.
Her eyes were shut, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. Reassurance that she was alive and okay.
It's been centuries since he felt this... Ache in his chest. The same ache that meant the one thing he loathed feeling and saw as a mere tool.
Fear.
The fear of losing her to whatever happened minutes ago gripped him like a devil's claw.
When her outburst broke through the bonds—he'd dropped his wine glass in a heartbeat and rushed toward her room. Only to notice something stirring in him.
Shadows engulfed the room he was in before he could leave. Whispers and cries from lives he's taken echoed in his ears in a way that had made him stagger.
"Murderer!"
"You promised."
"Please."
And for the first time in millennia... Azrael Vaelmont felt guilty.
