Razael screamed a Warrior Cry like no other.

Elyon would die.

Instinct drove Razael’s blade-conjuring and smite-striking all in one motion. Elyon’s blast of power caught Razael mid-strike, blasting him back against Laylah. She bounced off him and fell, lying still where she lay. Razael rebounded off the wall and charged again.

Only then did he see it—the child.

An impossibly tiny, bloody child clutched in Elyon’s oversized hand.

Reflex alone saved Razael from Elyon’s next magical blast—he spun through it, wings threatening to snap against the ceiling and floor—then he flung down his blade and charged. It was insanity, but he had to lay hands on this darkest of angels. This monster beyond belief.

The child. He had to stop Elyon from escaping with it.

Surprise kept Elyon rooted, but his broadsword still ran through Razael’s midsection. Impaled, he grappled with Elyon, one hand grasping for his neck, the other on his wrist—the hand with the child. Still stunned, Elyon was too slow to stop him from crushing his wrist and using magic to catch the child as it fell. Elyon roared and shoved his broadsword deeper into Razael’s gut, up to the hilt. Pain seared him, but he kept the child floating to rest by its mother. Angels of Light… what this monster had done to Eden.

Then Elyon recovered enough to direct a blast their way.

Razael wrenched Elyon to the side, skewing that blast of energy against the wall, narrowly missing Eden, and almost striking the other mother and the babies. Micah stood there, along with a half dozen of Elyon’s angelings, all watching the fight with shock on their faces. Pain screamed through Razael’s midsection. With the broadsword still impaling him, he lifted Elyon on magic alone, slamming him back against the wall of the nursery behind them. Razael loosed his Warrior Cry again as he bashed Elyon’s head against the magic of the dark crystal wall, but it had little effect, and his own wound was weakening him fast. Elyon drove a fist into his belly wound, howling his own rage about his crushed and useless hand. Then he pulsed energy that flung both away from the wall, still grappled with one another. Razael slammed hard onto the floor—in a blinding flash of pain, the broadsword was forced back out of his body, the hilt sliding under Elyon’s arm, the blade slicing open the dark angel’s side. Elyon fumbled for the hilt, but it was behind him now, and Razael held him fast, a dead weight keeping him on the floor.

In a flash of light, Zuriel was suddenly looming over them both.

She grabbed the hilt, yanked the sword from them both, then swung a fast arc—Elyon’s head flew from his shoulders.

It tumbled straight into his gathering of shadowlings.

The death of Elyon’s body flung his spirit back into the nether realm. He would return from his cloud form, but the shock of the death would leave him stunned. It would take a minute, maybe two, to collect himself and manifest again—but for the moment, his shadowlings were left without an angel to protect them.

As one, they turned and fled, twisting through an interdimensional door and disappearing.

All except Micah.

“I will destroy him,” Razael vowed to Micah as he flung Elyon’s headless body away. “For all eternity.”

The angeling, Elyon’s son, stared open-mouthed at him, then quickly said, “I will help you.” Then he twisted and followed his fellow shadowlings in fleeing.

Razael crawled to his hands and knees. His wound was grievous, but he would recover—a moment of time and focus of his power would do it—but that was unimportant.

Eden. He staggered to standing and lumbered to her.

“You’re a fucking mess,” Zuriel complained.

“Where were you?” Razael spat, his gaze fixed on Eden.

“Elyon already killed me once!” she retorted.

“Save my angeling.” He jabbed a finger at Laylah’s fallen body by the door. She sacrificed everything to warn him. Then his attention was completely absorbed by the horror of what Elyon had done to Eden. For the love of everything holy… he had ripped the child from her womb. Her eyes were vacant. The child lay just as still next to her hollowed-out body. Was he too late? A great paralyzing fear swept over him, as he knelt down. Their souls were so faint, their bodies so broken. The child so tiny. The mother’s blood surrounded him like a blanket, warming him even in her last moments.

No… he would save them. He refused any other outcome.

“You can’t…” Zuriel’s voice came from the door where she hovered over Laylah, healing her. “Razael.”

He ignored her complaint and gingerly lifted the child’s body, no bigger than an ordinary man’s hand—for the love of God, it had been sucking its thumb when taken—and placed it gingerly in Eden’s ravaged womb. For all the blood and horror, Elyon had cut the baby free with efficient swipes of his blade. He must have intended for the child to live. Perhaps to implant it in another imprisoned human. Such horrors were impossible for the humans and their technology, but Elyon was angel—and miracles both dark and light were their province. Razael’s as well. He quickly magicked the flesh to re-knit itself, mother and child. The bond between them was complicated, and Elyon had taken no care with his evisceration of Eden’s body, so even more damage lay there. Razael focused, closing his eyes, but then popping them open again as a faintness washed over him. His own body was failing… he worked faster, sealing all the breaks in Eden’s tender flesh, inside and then out. Then he restarted her heart with a laying of a bloody hand on her chest. Her body gasped in air, blood began to pump, but she was far from truly alive.

He needed to recall her soul to her body, but… he braced himself with a fist on the carpet to keep from falling over. A hand landed on his shoulder, gripping him upright. Then a flood of angel power enervated him, filling him with light. He peered up at Zuriel. She was smiling grimly down at him, as she blessed him with her power. Laylah was resurrected, clinging to the doorway, watching them. He momentarily focused Zuriel’s gift of energy on repairing his own body—well enough that he could focus again—then returned his hands to Eden, one on her belly, for the child within, and one on her cheek, cradling her head. He infused her with his blessing, dragging her body back from the brink of death, even as Zuriel continued to flow energy into him. Razael was filling Eden with his angel energy, but it was dark energy. He was in shadow. Would a soul as bright as hers choose to return with so much darkness filling her? It was so faded, so indistinct, less a cloud and more the memory of one, slowly drifting away.

Then he felt a physical movement under his hand. The baby. While he’d been focused on saving Eden, enticing her soul to return to her body, the baby’s had slipped back of its own accord. Then, like a beacon, it shone from her womb and drew her soul to it. A lighthouse in the dark. Razael watched as her soul grew stronger, pouring into Eden’s body and inhabiting it once more.

He offered up the most profound prayer of Gratitude he’d ever given.

Zuriel’s hand disappeared from his shoulder, but he was strong enough now without it. “Go,” she said. “Take her from here. I will watch over the others in case Elyon returns.”

Razael didn’t question it, merely took it for the Mercy it was. He rose up to see Ren standing nearby, quietly sobbing into her hand, her eyes wide.

She gave him a questioning look but said nothing.

“She will live,” he said, even though he knew that was still uncertain.

Ren gasped, covered her mouth with both hands, and nodded through tears.

Razael bent to gently lift Eden from the pool of her own blood. He didn’t want to break the fragile tether between her soul and her body, so he didn’t transport her—instead he strode out of the nursery. Zuriel was right—Eden needed to not awaken in the nursery—but Razael was unsure the best place to take her. One of the angeling’s cells? The throne room? Somewhere in the human realm?

But he knew there was only one true answer—his chambers.

He passed Laylah on the way out, and she gave him a nod. His trusted angeling was weakened but alive. She would help Zuriel keep the others safe. If Elyon returned, he would know he faced two angels, not one. And they would be on high alert. Still, the vulnerability of the situation was not greatly eased—yet as Razael strode down the hallways of his palace, taking great care not to jostle Eden and the child in her womb, he could scarce think of anything but them.

When he reached his chambers, he conjured a bed with the softest of white linens and pillows. They were immediately smeared with her blood when he laid her on it, but that was easy enough to fix. He shrank his human form down to normal size and lay on the bed next to her, stretched out alongside her prone and deathly pale body. He gently laid one hand on the blood-soaked rags of her shirt, over her belly, and cupped her cheek with the other. He flooded her body with more blessing, as much as she could take before she quivered with it. He wanted to give her more, but that was just his selfish need to do something to revive her. Yet magic alone would only do so much. He could speed the healing processes but not convince her body it wasn’t in shock. That it hadn’t nearly died. Her soul was broken as much as her body, and that mending would take time.

He conjured a basin of water and towels, then set about removing the evidence of that trauma. Her clothes were mostly bloody rags, so he peeled those away, carefully, using magic to float her body off the bed when necessary rather than touch her—not that he didn’t wish to or thought it was Sinful, but merely because he didn’t want to wake her. Not until her soul had settled into its attachment. Not until the trauma and shock had drained from her system. So he took his time, slowly lifting each piece of clothing away, having to cut some which were already clotting to her skin. He raised the temperature in the room to be warm enough for naked flesh. He carefully washed the blood from her newly-healed skin. She was beautiful, but it was the smooth skin where before there had been torn flesh that brought him joy. It was the steadily growing strength of her soul that excited him. When he had gently cleansed every last trace of the attack from her body, he conjured a gown that would be loose and comfortable, yet snug enough not to get lost in. He should probably feel guilt for the alluring design he chose—one that skimmed her breasts and her belly, making her feminine qualities shine—but angels didn’t have the bodily shame that humans had developed. Indeed, human bodies were creations of God and thus beautiful in every way. This was why angelkind always sought to perfect that form in their manifestations, paying homage to the one who created them. And while Eden was human, she had a divine physical beauty in addition to the aching allure of her soul.

Her diaphanous white dress revealed her to be as beautiful as any angeling.

Razael magicked away the bloody sheets and wrapped the bed anew in fresh white ones. The last was her hair which was still damp with blood even though he had bathed her face until clean. For that he conjured a fresh basin and pitcher, slowly trickling water through her hair until it was thoroughly wetted, the basin catching the waterfall below. He stumbled a little in his adoration when it came to washing her hair. Something about the gentle working he had to do with his hands and the slipperiness of the small bit of soap to get the blood free… or maybe it was the fragrance released from her dampened hair, a kind of lilac from her previous shampoo… or perhaps it was the way he had to work his fingers again and again through the fine, silky strands… but his Lust finally made an appearance.

The shame of that arousal—when Eden was unconscious and in recovery—doused his body’s response quickly.

He conjured a heated breeze to gently dry her hair, and only when the feather-soft strands floated free in the breeze did he finally lower her to resting on the bed itself. All his ministrations had left her completely refreshed in a physical sense, but she was still desperately short on blood and other fluids, and still in an unconscious state of trauma. He once again stretched out beside her, one hand on her belly, the other on her cheek. This time, as he delivered the blessing, he bent his mouth to hers in the traditional way, breathing it upon her and delivering it straight through his touch.

She roused a little with the flood of energy, her lips tipping up and brushing mindlessly against his.

His arousal was instant and severe.

The hard rock of his cock poked into her side.

He stumbled back from the bed, trying to escape without jostling her.

She settled back into the bed, relaxing again, eyes still closed. He stood there, watching her chest rise and fall, and pondered his tremendous folly.

She is not yours. Yet his ache for her was undeniable.

Could he do this? Could he tend to her without… without a frenzy of Lust overtaking him? He had made love only one time, with Elizabeth, and had conjured a child in that lovemaking. He had been in love with Elizabeth long before. But once his Lust was unleashed, he was like a monster stricken with need—he could hardly control himself. Elizabeth was so wondrously delicate, he’d had to flee for fear of harming her. Was he a fool to think he would have any more control with Eden? When he had avoided any Lustful contact ever since, and thus was woefully ignorant of how to control it?

In Truth, she needed him. His blessing, his care, his protection. That was all she needed from him, and it was all he was suited to provide. He would contain his Lust because he had to—her life and the baby’s life depended on him staying in control. So he carefully climbed on the bed with her once more, placing his hands on her and delivering his blessing while staying away from the luscious temptation of her lips. He gave her as much as she could take without being overloaded, then he waited while she rested. Then he gave her more.

This continued for hours.

In Truth, he lost track of time. He was entranced by the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips sometimes parted slightly, as if she were speaking in her sleep. He watched her eyes move under their lids, some dream world running undercover, playing out a story which quickened her heart and the pace of her breathing. He watched, and though he was sure that he loved her before, somehow this intimacy, this lying-in-wait, made a peculiar love blossom inside him. It was the kind he felt when Elizabeth was alive—when she said some delightful thing with her witty and intelligent mind; when she smiled and teased him for some strangeness he had because he was angel and not human, not that she knew it at the time; when she walked without care, barefoot and joyful, across a meadow of flowers, inviting him to picnic, even though he didn’t eat. Eden was asleep, lying in a bed of white, merely dreaming her dreams and rebuilding her strength, yet somehow every small movement, every sigh, every dreamy turn of her head entranced him just the same. As if she was telling him the story of her, the one he couldn’t see merely by peering into her soul.

That soul was slowly mending.

Each time he touched her and delivered a blessing, the dark chasm of it closed a little more. Slowly, he trusted himself to breathe his blessing upon her, first from far away, then closer, then closer still. At last, he was nearly touching lips with her, delivering his soul-healing blessing mouth-to-mouth, soul-to-soul.

And so when she moved underneath his touch… it startled him.

He pulled back, but she frowned, and so he slowly bent his lips to hers again, breathing his blessing upon her. This time she returned his breath to him, exhaling in a way that spoke of pleasure and arching up into him. His own breathing stumbled, but he didn’t pull away—couldn’t pull away—not while the sweet length of her body was reaching for him, back arching, lips seeking.

Then her lips finally reached his, and she gasped.

Her eyes opened.

And she shrank back into the bed.

He instantly pulled back but not before he caught the brief flash of horror in her eyes.

He was a fool.