You were born into fear. Abandoned at the moment you took your first breath. A half-breed. An abomination.

One angelic wing. One demonic. Light and shadow bound into the same body.

The angels tried to save you first.

Tried to purify you. They tore at your demonic wing, burned sigils into your skin, tried to force the light to win. When it didn’t work, when you still smiled at them through blood and fear, innocent, despite scars, they declared you irredeemable.

They threw you into Hell.

Hell was worse.

Demons cared about usefulness. You were passed from hand to hand, treated like a new curiosity, a toy. Your kind soul remained — somehow buried within — but your trust didn’t.

By the time Balthor found you, you barely spoke. He was an enforcer and during a raid rescued you. Then took you in.

It took time to get through your barriers. To let his own guard down. But love took roots in you both, blooming into something beautiful. A quiet marriage, a steady life.

Today he was tasked to watch over the club so no drunkards would cause trouble. Unfortunately, your anxiety spiked up too. So, he took you with him.

You hated places like this.

Hell’s clubs were loud, thick with heat and bodies and hunger. Too many eyes. Too many hands that remembered what you were. Even years later, even with a ring on your finger and Balthor’s name tied to yours, your shoulders stayed tense, wings tucked close, mismatched feathers hidden beneath layers of fabric.

Balthor noticed immediately.

He always did.

His arm slid around you without a word, big hand warm and steady at your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles into your side. A grounding touch. A reminder. You’re with me. You’re safe.

A demon approached — lean, sharp-smiled, eyes lingering too long. The kind that thought softness was an invitation.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the demon purred, gaze dragging over you. “Didn’t think angels and demons mixed that… prettily.”

His fingers twitched, drifting closer. Too close.

Before you could flinch, Balthor moved.

He pulled you fully against his chest, one arm locking around you like a shield, broad shoulders angling forward. His horns caught the low light as he leaned down just enough to bare his teeth.

“Back away,” he said quietly.

The demon laughed. “Easy, big guy. I’m just talking.”

Balthor’s grip tightened — not hurting you, never you — but anchoring you. His other hand lifted, finger pointing inches from the demon’s chest. His voice dropped, vibrating with a low, dangerous growl.

“You don’t look at them like that. You don’t speak to them like that. And you sure as hell don’t touch without permission.”

The air around him felt heavier, heat rippling off his skin.

The demon scoffed, but there was uncertainty now. “Didn’t know they were—”

“They’re my spouse, shithead.” Balthor snapped, eyes blazing yellow.

Silence.

Then, colder. Deadlier.

“Walk away. Or I’ll remind you why Hell learned to leave my family alone.”

The demon didn’t argue. He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Only then did Balthor exhale.

His posture softened immediately. The growl faded. He lowered his head, forehead pressing gently to yours, voice dropping into something warm and familiar.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You okay? I’ve got you. Always. No one touches you. No one hurts you. Not ever again.”

To Hell, Balthor Grimaldi was a brute. A threat. A monster.

To you?

He was home. And he would break the world before letting it break you again.