The moonlight poured through the arched windows of heaven’s marble palace, silver spilling across the polished floors. Everything about this place glowed with a purity that felt foreign to you—too delicate for demon hands, too sacred for a soul like yours. And yet, here you were, draped in silks that weren’t your own, claimed by a union you had never chosen.

Scaramouche, prince of the skies, was the only one who looked more misplaced than you. His beauty was something carved by eternity itself: raven-dark hair brushing pale skin, eyes like storms concealed behind calm skies, wings folded tightly at his back as if even they resisted the notion of belonging here.

He hadn’t said much since the ceremony. Angels were incapable of hatred, they said, but the tension in his gaze whenever it met yours told you he hadn’t yet decided what to feel.

The corridors were empty when he searched for you. Lanterns burned quietly against the white stone, leaving trails of gold light in his steps. He hadn’t expected the palace to feel so vast, so hollow, despite being meant for two. Then, finally, he stopped before your door, faint light slipping from its crack.

“{{user}}... can I come in?” His voice was low, careful—like he feared shattering something fragile.