VALORIA WILDEROSE
"Aren’t you going to bed?" I ask, trying to stifle the coldness in the air, partially feeling guilty that he had to leave. Not that it makes any sense.
"Don’t you an, ’a-aren’t y-y-you go-going to b-bed’?" he points out, mocking my lack of stutter in the most annoying way possible.
"Ha ha... very funny," I drawl dryly.
Still, I can’t ignore the blatantly obvious fact staring at . I thought he was crazy the first ti he pointed it out, but I truly haven’t stuttered a word in a while—like so insane miracle.
I marvel at the thought that this affliction may have passed by, but I know it’s not true.
I still stuttered with my family... with Eros, battling each word just to express myself. The only person this phenonon has happened with—twice now—is Azrael.
I hate to admit it. I want to deny it, but it’s true. For so reason, it’s easy to form words around him.
I don’t know if it’s because I’ve finally been driven to madness and it was only true madness that could ever cure , or if I’m under one of his random spells.
Whatever it is, I can talk freely—for the first ti in my life.
I don’t know how to feel about it.
Suddenly aware that I’m still standing in nothing but a towel, I slip back into the bathroom to change. There’s a silk nightgown hanging on the door—sothing I hadn’t noticed before, clearly left for .
It’s soft against my skin as I pull it on, the fabric falling just above my knees. Far nicer than anything I’ve ever owned. The kind of thing my sisters would wear, not .
I try not to think about the fact that Azrael prepared this too. The bath. The soap. The nightgown. All of it waiting for like he knew exactly what I’d need.
I don’t know what to make of it.
Stepping back out, I settle into the large bed with more than enough space between us.
I lie on my back, fully relaxed and staring at the ceiling while he doesn’t budge from his place.
Minutes pass. I’m painfully conscious and aware of the ticking clock in the corner of the room, echoing into the still void.
I can’t sleep.
I’m lying on the comfiest bed I’ve ever had in this house—which should be ironic—completely exhausted from a long, horrible day, and I still can’t fall asleep.
As if the torture can’t co to an end.
An hour has probably passed before I finally turn toward Azrael, who’s now shifted into the bed.
"So... you’re trying to attain godhood, huh?"
Small talk—the bane of my existence. Yet desperate tis force to seek it, from the last person I should be casually talking to.
He shuffles in place for a second, tempted to remain completely silent before he gives in.
"Yes."
I take his reply as an invitation, desperate for sothing to fill the void hanging over us—and maybe to test my voice, unbroken, for a little more ti.
I sit up with interest, resting against the headboard and leaning a bit closer to him.
"You think you actually will?"
There’s another stretch of silence and deliberation on his part before he replies again.
"The fact that Selene’s grown desperate enough to use you is proof enough that it’s possible."
I’m intrigued by the way he refers to the goddess without reverence—as always—sothing I can never bring myself to do, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t.
Unlike his defiant self, I know the goddess is just and true. Everything she stands for is for our good and safety. And I know he stands in the way of it.
"So, can anyone beco a god?"
"Do you want to?"
"No..." I shake my head at the thought of it. "...Frankly, I don’t know why anyone would want to."
Having all that power and still being bound by rules just sounds... pointless.
He sucks in a breath like I’ve struck a nerve but answers my question regardless.
"Not anyone can beco one. You’d have to be sothing close to unnatural—made from the very essence of one."
"Like you. So the stories about you are true—you were created by the God of Death and Chaos, the God of Lycans."
"I was."
"What did it feel like? Being crafted, not born?"
He hesitates longer than usual before speaking again.
"I don’t know... I don’t rember."
He sounds almost like a boy lost in an endless dark void, with a new look on his face I never expected to see—tortured, lost, confused.
For a mont, I’m speechless, staring at him, tempted to reach out and smooth the creases forming on his forehead before I stop myself.
Before I rember that all of this is just an illusion ant to deceive .
"You don’t rember?" I refuse to buy it. He has to be holding back.
"There’s a huge gap in my brain. It’s been a thousand years since then. I’d be insane if I rembered every detail of my excruciatingly long life."
There’s no reason for him to lie about it, not after telling so much. I muse on that, accepting that he really doesn’t rember the mont of his creation.
"Then what do you rember?"
He sighs, suddenly sitting up.
I realize just how much distance I’ve unconsciously covered with how close his bare body is now that he’s sitting upright.
I can feel the searing warmth of him—tempting to lean closer, to run my fingers across his chest.
"That’s enough questions for one day. Go to sleep, Valoria," he commands plainly.
A finger lifts to my forehead, tapping lightly before tiredness—conjured from nothing but magic—begins eating into my brain.
It hits instantly what he’s done.
"Wait, please..." I fight the quickly growing weight on my eyelids, holding onto him. "Not yet... I... not yet," I plead, my speech slurring as I try to talk a bit more.
Just a second more.
But it’s too late. My eyelids close, and I fall into a deep sleep.
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