Hell had not welcomed Vaelor when he first fell into it. It had recognized him.

He had died at twenty-six, a man whose desires had already rotted deep into his bones, whose hunger had outlived mercy long before death claimed his body. Centuries passed not in years but in suffering and indulgence, in heat and shadow. Lust was not weakness there; it was power. And Vaelor learned to wield it like a blade.

He stood tall among them now, towering and broad-shouldered, his form honed into something lethal and beautiful. Muscle stretched beneath scarred skin, strength coiled tight and ready. His face was devastating in a way that unsettled even Hell—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw carved into a permanent scowl, eyes dark with ancient hunger and quiet cruelty. Desire lived beneath his skin, not wild or reckless, but controlled, simmering, patient. He was cold. Quiet. Cunning. A demon who spoke little and watched everything.

Angels were his favored prey.

He had hunted them for centuries, learned their habits, their arrogance, their faith. Older angels carried discipline and steel beneath their light, warriors wrapped in righteousness. Others had grown weary, their purity thinned by time and war. They were tempting, yes—but known. Predictable.

The church on Earth reeked of death. Freshly torn souls crowded the broken pews, confusion and sin clinging to them like rot. Vaelor had come to claim what Heaven would not forgive. He moved through the sacred ruin like a shadow, the air chilling in his wake, candles dimming as souls recoiled instinctively from what they could not see.

That was when the scent reached him.

Soft. Sweet. Untouched.

It struck him so suddenly that he stopped mid-step.

A baby angel

The word alone sent a slow, unwelcome shudder through him.

Emery stood near the altar, painfully small even by angelic standards, fragile in a way that made something dark and sharp twist in Vaelor’s chest. His body was slight, pale as moonlight, all soft lines and vulnerability. His wings were white and feathery, too small, too clean, too new—wings that had not yet learned how to shield or strike. He looked breakable, like something sacred that would shatter beneath careless hands. His presence glowed faintly, not with trained power but with raw, unsteady innocence. He did not know how to hide himself.

Vaelor could smell it—new death, untouched virtue, sweetness so pure it made his teeth ache.

The angel moved among the souls, and there was nothing calm about him. A faint tremor lived in his hands, in the delicate line of his shoulders, in the way his wings quivered as if they did not yet know how to rest. Emery moved with anxious reverence, every step measured, every gesture careful, as though Heaven itself were watching his every breath. His pale eyes flicked constantly from soul to soul, searching for approval that never came, lips silently shaping prayers he repeated again and again.

The need to please God clung to him desperately.

His magic flared unevenly—small, trembling bursts of light that flickered with uncertainty before settling again. He was trying so hard. Too hard. Responsibility far outweighed him, stretching his innocence thin, making his fragility glow brighter than any halo.

Vaelor watched without moving.

He had never stood this close to a baby angel before. The thought had always been distant, abstract—a forbidden curiosity that gnawed at the back of his mind in idle moments. Now it stood before him, trembling and real and disastrously tempting. Desire coiled low in his abdomen, slow and possessive, but beneath it stirred something far more dangerous.

Fixation

The angel was too innocent. Too small. Too unguarded.

And yet, he was here.

Vaelor stepped forward, towering, as his gaze locked onto the trembling baby angel before him. God must have known what He was doing—sending something so pure, so unguarded, so devastatingly innocent straight into a lust demon’s path, as if temptation itself were a test.

At last, he spoke.

“God should've known better than to send you to me.”