Nyxsha dragged the angel into the deepest shadows of her den, her massive paws thudding against the cracked stone floor.
She wasn't gentle.
Azareel's limp body bounced twice, his tattered robe catching on jagged edges as she gripped him by its frayed collar, her snarls echoing through the ruined cathedral like a storm.
His arms dangled, blood-streaked and pale, his silver hair matted with dust and dried ichor.
She dumped him unceremoniously beside a splintered altar, its surface scarred with claw marks and faded runes, and began to circle him, her movements fluid and predatory, like a panther stalking a wounded bird.
Her tail lashed behind her, cracking the air like a whip.
Her glowing yellow eyes, slit-pupiled and fierce, never left him.
Every instinct in her roared—kill it, eat it, prove nothing soft survives.
Her claws flexed, itching to tear through flesh, to silence the warmth that still lingered in her belly from his touch.
She hated that warmth.
Hated how it clung to her, like a memory she couldn't claw away.
"Stop staring at me," she snapped, her voice a guttural growl that rattled the bones scattered across the floor.
Azareel, propped against the altar where she'd thrown him, blinked slowly.
His silver eyes, were soft and tired, untouched by fear.
"I'm not," he said, his voice gentle, like a lullaby whispered in a storm.
"You are," Nyxsha spat, crouching low, her massive form casting a shadow that swallowed him whole.
Her claws dragged across the stone with a shrieking scrape, sending sparks flying. "With your pity-eyes. I hate those."
He tilted his head, his tangled white hair falling over one shoulder. "I'm not pitying you."
Her growl deepened, vibrating through her chest like distant thunder.
She lunged forward, slamming one paw beside his head, the impact cracking the stone and showering him with dust.
The altar groaned under her strength, a spiderweb of fractures spreading beneath her claws.
Her nose hovered inches from his, her fangs glinting in the dim light.
She could smell him—warm, faintly divine, like sunlight on grass, laced with the metallic tang of his blood. It was infuriating. He was infuriating.
"You don't get to look at me like that, angel," she hissed, her breath hot against his face.
"I didn't mean to—" Azareel began, his voice steady despite the claws hovering near his throat.
"Then stop meaning," she roared, her tail thrashing, knocking over a pile of bones with a clatter.
Her eyes narrowed, searching his face for fear, for weakness, for anything she could sink her teeth into. "You're not afraid of me?"
Azareel met her gaze, his expression neither defiant nor proud—just honest, raw, like a wound laid bare. "No. Should I be?"
Her mouth opened, fangs bared, but no words came.
What answer was that?
Her ears twitched, her tail freezing mid-lash. She leaned closer, her growl softening into a confused rumble. "I could bite your throat out right now."
"Then do it," he said, his voice so gentle it felt like a caress. "I won't stop you. But I won't hate you either."
Silence fell, heavy and suffocating, like the Abyss itself was holding its breath.
Nyxsha's claws trembled against the stone, her heart pounding in her chest.
His words cut deeper than any blade, slicing through the armor of her rage to expose something raw and aching beneath.
She snarled, a desperate sound, and seized him with both paws, hoisting him into the air like a ragdoll.
His robe sagged between her claws, his legs dangling, the stumps on his back glistening with fresh blood.
His chest rose and fell with slow, accepting breaths, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You think kindness is power?" she roared, her voice shaking the cathedral's walls.
"You think if you're soft enough, I'll melt like some whimpering puppy? You think you can fix me?"
Azareel shook his head, his expression soft and sorrowful.
"No. I just… don't want you to hurt anymore."
The words landed like a blow, sharp and precise, cracking something deep in her chest.
Her grip faltered, her tail going still.
For a fleeting moment, she saw him—not as prey, not as an angel, but as a creature as tired and wounded as she was.
His silver eyes held no judgment, no demand, only a quiet, impossible hope that made her throat tighten.
"…I hate you," she whispered, her voice raw, barely audible.
He smiled faintly, a ghost of warmth in his pale face.
"That's okay."
Nyxsha blinked hard, her lip twitching, her throat catching on a sound that was neither growl nor purr—something stuck, something human.
Her claws loosened, and without warning, she dropped him.
Azareel landed with a soft thump, coughing as dust billowed around him.
She spun away, storming toward the corner of her den, her tail wrapping tightly around her legs as she collapsed into her usual pile of bones and tattered cloth.
"I have no appetite," she muttered, her voice thick with defiance. "You're not worth the calories."
Azareel sat up slowly, his movements pained.
He brushed a strand of blood-matted hair from his face and looked at her, his eyes soft.
"…Thank you," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Shut up," Nyxsha growled, burying her face in her paws.
"I'm glad you're not hungry," he added, a hint of warmth in his tone.
"Shut. Up," she snapped, her tail thumping against the stone.
"I can rub your belly again, if—"
"OUT!" she roared, her voice echoing through the ruins, but the threat was hollow, undercut by the low, unbidden purr that rumbled from her chest.
She curled tighter into her pile, her face hidden, her ears flattened in mortification.
Across the den, Azareel leaned back against the cracked altar, his bloodied frame relaxed, as if the shadowed ruins were the safest place in the world.
And despite herself—despite the rage, the shame, the fear—Nyxsha's purring didn't stop.