The Abyss was silent again, its usual cacophony of drips and distant screams hushed, as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Nyxsha didn't trust it.
Silence in the Abyss was a liar, a predator that lured you into lowering your guard before sinking its teeth.
She lay curled in her nest of torn cloth and cracked bones, one muscular arm tucked under her head, the other draped protectively over her scarred belly.
Her prehensile tail, scarred from centuries of self-biting, coiled lazily over her thighs like a heavy rope of muscle, twitching with every restless thought that refused to let her rest.
Her ears flicked, catching the faint hum of the Bone Ceiling's stalactites above.
Her nose wrinkled at the lingering scent of blood and damp fur—hers, and now his.
Her claws flexed, scraping faintly against the stone floor.
She was tired, bone-deep, her muscles aching from days without sleep, her heart raw from a day more intimate than the last century of her solitary existence.
The memory of Azareel's touch—his warm, gentle hand on her belly—clung to her like a fever, both a comfort and a torment.
She hated it. She craved it.
She hated that she craved it.
"Stupid angel," she muttered, her voice a low growl that barely reached the shadows.
Her fur still tingled where he'd rubbed her, the warmth of his touch lingering like an unwelcome guest.
It was a trap, wasn't it?
A divine trick to soften her, to break her.
Or worse—something real, something she didn't know how to fight.
A soft shuffle broke the quiet, faint but there, like footsteps on broken stone.
Nyxsha stilled, her ears swiveling, her tail freezing mid-twitch.
Her glowing yellow eyes narrowed, peering into the gloom of her cathedral den.
Then—
Something brushed her tail.
"Don't," she warned, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence like a blade.
A pause.
Then his voice—small, fragile, achingly soft.
"…I'm cold."
Nyxsha groaned, rolling halfway to face him.
Azareel was dragging his battered body closer, half-crawling across the stone like a sleep-deprived kitten, his torn tunic clinging to his bloodied frame.
His silver eyes, were heavy with exhaustion, his white hair matted with dust and dried ichor.
The stumps on his back glistened faintly, a cruel reminder of his fall.
He looked so small, so breakable, yet there was a quiet determination in his movements, as if the Abyss itself couldn't keep him from reaching her.
He reached for her tail again, his fingers slow and reverent, like he was touching something sacred.
"Stop petting me like I'm a blanket," Nyxsha growled, her tail twitching out of his grasp, though the motion was half-hearted, betraying her.
"I'm sorry," Azareel whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with that infuriating kindness. "It's just… soft."
His fingers found the tip of her tail again, sliding gently over the coarse, scarred fur.
Then, without a word, he lay down—right against her.
Not pressing, not demanding, just close enough that his head rested against the base of her thigh, his knees pulled up, his arms folded to his chest.
He wrapped her tail around himself like a scarf, his touch light, as if he feared he might break her.
Nyxsha's eye twitched, her fangs baring instinctively.