"Do you want to be crushed?" she snapped, her voice rumbling through the den. "I roll in my sleep. I twitch. I spasm. I bite."
Azareel looked up, his eyes half-lidded, a faint, gentle smile curving his lips despite the pain etched into his face. "Okay."
She glared, her ears flattening.
"What do you mean 'okay'? That's not—" Her words stumbled, her growl faltering as his warmth seeped into her skin, a quiet presence against the cold stone and colder memories.
"Please," he whispered, his voice breaking on the word, raw and pleading. "Just for tonight."
Her growl died in her throat, choked by something she couldn't name.
His warmth was barely there—small, fragile, like a candle flickering in a storm—but it was there, real and undeniable.
It stirred something in her, something she'd buried beneath centuries of blood and rage.
Her claws retracted, her tail curling tighter around him of its own accord, as if her body had made a choice her mind refused to acknowledge.
She turned away, burying her face in her pillow of bones, the sharp edges pressing against her cheek.
"Fine," she muttered, her voice muffled, thick with defiance. "But if you get flattened like a wet fruit, that's your problem. Not mine."
Azareel nodded against her leg, his breath warm and steady.
"Thank you," he said, the words soft but heavy, like a gift she didn't know how to accept.
Silence settled over the den, but this time, it was different—calmer, softer, like the Abyss had exhaled and decided to rest.
Nyxsha lay still, her muscles slowly loosening, her ears twitching slower, her tail settling around Azareel like a protective coil.
The warmth of his presence, faint but persistent, seeped into her, easing the ache in her chest, quieting the ghosts that haunted her sleepless nights.
For the first time in centuries, Nyxsha slept.
No visions of blood.
No screams of children she'd failed.
No nightmares clawing at her soul.
Just warmth.
And breath.
And a fragile, fleeting peace.
__________
purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr~
Nyxsha woke to the sound of her own purring, a low, contented rumble that vibrated through her chest like a traitor's confession.
Her eyes snapped open, golden and slit-pupiled, wide with horror.
Her massive, feline-lupine body was stretched languidly across her nest of torn cloth and cracked bones, her fur smooth and un-itchy, her claws sheathed, her stomach unclenched.
She was comfortable—a word so alien it set off screaming alarms in her skull.
The Abyss never had sunrises, but the corpse-lights in the marrow rivers below flared at odd hours, casting an amber glow through the cracks of the cathedral's shattered walls.
The light bathed her den in a soft, deceptive warmth, glinting off scattered bones, dust, and broken pews.
For a fleeting moment, Nyxsha thought she was dead.
No pain.
No rage.
Just… peace.
It was unnatural.
Wrong. Dangerous.
Then something moved against her hip.
Her gaze dropped, and her heart lurched.
Azareel.
The angel was wrapped in her prehensile tail like an ancient scroll, his pale face pressed against her fur, his arms loosely hugging the base of her thigh.
His silver-white hair, streaked with faded gold, tangled in her black fur, and his bare feet poked out, toes twitching as if chasing a dream.
The stumps on his back, still raw and bloodied, glistened faintly in the dim light, a stark reminder of his fall.
Nyxsha's muscles locked.
What the absolute flea-infested hell is this?
Her tail, that treacherous appendage, curled snugly around him, as if it had decided he was a prized possession.
Her fur still tingled from his touch, the memory of his warm hand on her belly burning like a brand.
She'd slept.
Not just slept—cuddled.
Purring like a domesticated mutt, drooling on her own paw, one hind leg twitching like some pampered beast dreaming of rolling fields.
She gagged, her stomach churning with disgust and something worse—shame.
With a stifled snarl, she reared back, her tail whipping free and smacking Azareel across the face like a flailing rope.