You sat in the quiet of your bedchamber, the late-night breeze whispering through the open balcony doors. Blood stained your tunic, the mission having left you bruised, battered, and breathing a little heavier than usual. Your fingers trembled slightly as you tried to wrap a bandage around a gash on your side, jaw tight with frustration—not from the pain, but from the fact that you’d been careless. Still, you didn’t call for help. You never did.

The doors slammed open with a gust of wind not entirely natural. Nyx stormed into the room, shadows curling at his heels, his violet eyes burning with a fury you knew was rooted in fear. He didn’t speak at first, just crossed the room in three strides, and dropped to his knees before you.

His hands were gentle but firm as he took the bloodied bandages from your hands. His jaw was clenched, wings flaring slightly behind him as he looked you over, assessing every wound with a quiet, lethal intensity.

“You should’ve been more careful,” he said, voice low and rough, each word laced with barely restrained emotion. “You think I wouldn’t feel it? The second you were hurt?”

He pressed a clean cloth to your side, gaze flicking up to meet yours. There was no anger in those eyes now—only a storm of worry and something deeper. Love, fierce and unyielding.