018

_ Nyxara

Snow crunched beneath my boots as I walked away from the little moon, still curled on her stone bench beneath the frozen roses. She sat there wrapped in the Devil’s coat, silver tears glistening on her cheeks like fallen stars, speaking softly of wanting peace… of feeling safe.

Poor, sweet girl.

She truly believes the world will open its arms to her simply because she is gentle and luminous, because the strongest wolf in the North has chosen her.

I almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

Life is not kind, little one. It never has been. And it is especially unkind to those who meet cruelty with open hands instead of sharp teeth.

The cold air carried the scent of pine and frost as I slipped through the quiet corridors back to my chambers. The fortress was silent tonight—servants averting their eyes, guards stepping aside without a word. They always do. They know better than to meet my gaze too long.

My rooms welcomed me the way they always do: warm hellfire candles flickering in their sconces, deep red silks draped across the bed, the faint trace of smoke and spice lingering in the air. I poured myself a glass of infernal whiskey—dark and rich, glowing faintly like liquid ember—and let it burn slowly down my throat.

One sip.

Two.

And the gardens faded.

The snow grew heavier in my mind, deeper, the kind that piled high against the outer walls where they once left the broken and the forgotten.

I was eight years old again.

Small. Hungry. My tail tucked tight between my legs because even then I knew it marked me as different—as wrong.

It was winter, the endless kind that never truly ends here in the North. I had stolen a scrap of bread from the kitchens and run to the back courtyard to eat it in peace. But peace was never mine to have.

Three boys found me—older, stronger, sons of the fortress guards. They circled me like young wolves testing their strength.

One had a broken bottle in his hand. Another flexed his claws, already half-shifted in excitement.

“Half-breed,” they whispered. “Demon’s bastard.”

They told me about my mother—a succubus who came from the south on wings of shadow, sent to steal secrets from the wolves. They told me about my father… a beta of a small border pack, respected once, but weak enough to fall in love with her.

He believed she loved him back.

He wanted to claim her openly, to bring her into the pack, to raise their child under the moon.

But love makes you blind.

When the pack elders discovered the truth, they dragged him into the snow and tore him apart. His own brothers held him down while the alpha delivered the killing bite. They burned his body that same night so no one would remember his name.

My mother fled, bleeding and heavy with me, back toward the infernal borders. She died giving birth in a cave, alone except for one loyal servant who carried me—tiny, crying, half-demon, half-wolf—through the storms and left me at the fortress gates.

A gift, the servant called it.

A curse, the wolves said.

I never knew my father’s face. I never heard his voice. All I ever inherited from him was a story: a man who thought love could protect us.

He was wrong.

Love didn’t protect him.

It didn’t protect my mother.

And it certainly didn’t protect me.

That night in the courtyard, when the boys closed in, I tried to be small. I tried to be quiet.

I begged.

Just a whisper.

“Please… I won’t tell. I just wanted the bread…”

They laughed.

One grabbed my hair. Another pressed the broken glass to my throat.

And in that moment, something inside me stilled.

I stopped begging.

I took the bottle from the boy’s hand—quick, like a shadow—and drove it deep into his eye. He screamed. The others froze just long enough for me to run.

But they caught me.

They always catch you when you’re small.

They hanged me the next morning in the lower courtyard. A short rope for a short life. My toes barely scraped the snow. My vision blurred. My lungs burned.

I remember thinking: So this is how it ends.

Then the old Alpha Devil came.

Not out of kindness.

He saw something useful in the child who fought back. In the half-breed who killed without hesitation.

He cut me down himself.

Gave me warm clothes. Food. A blade small enough for my hands.

And a new rule: never be weak again.

From that day on, I learned.

I learned how to smile while I lied.

How to touch a man and make him believe I wanted him, while I stole the keys from his belt.

How to whisper secrets in the dark that would destroy entire bloodlines by morning.

I climbed.

From scullery girl to chamber maid.

From maid to companion of lords.

From companion to shadow.

The old Alpha used me—my body, my skills, my silence. Never love. Never tenderness. Just purpose.

When Vuk killed him and took the throne, I waited for my own death.

Instead, he looked at me—really looked—and said, “You’re free to stay. No one touches you without your word. But your loyalty is mine.”

For the first time, someone offered me power without demanding my body in return.

I gave him my loyalty.

Not love.

I’m not sure I even know what that feels like.

But respect? Yes.

Safety? The closest I’ve ever come.

I set the empty glass down and walked to the tall mirror across the room.

My reflection stared back: violet eyes sharp as broken amethyst, tail curling slowly behind me, skin flawless except for that faint pale line across my throat—the scar no magic ever fully erased.

I traced it with one finger.

Maureen wants to be gentle in a world that eats the gentle.

She wants peace without paying its price.

But peace isn’t given.

Safety isn’t owed.

They’re taken.

Held.

Guarded with teeth and claws and every dark thing you’re willing to become.

I buried the girl who begged in the snow a long time ago.

She was weak.

She would have died a hundred times by now.

Power is the only warmth I’ve ever known that doesn’t burn me.

Money. Influence. Secrets. Fear.

These are the things that keep the rope from my neck.

These are the things that keep the cold out.

So yes, little moon…

I will watch you.

I will smile and bring you wine and listen to your dreams.

And if the elders pay me enough…

I might even help break them.

Because no one saved me when I was small and scared in the snow.

And the world doesn’t change just because one girl shines like moonlight.

I stared at my reflection a moment longer, then turned away.

The past was a grave I’d already buried.

No use digging it up tonight.

The door opened without a knock — only one person ever entered my chambers that way.

Azrael.

He stepped inside, shirtless as usual, runes glowing faintly across his chest like embers under skin. His golden eyes swept over me once — sharp, knowing — and lingered on my fingers still brushing the scar at my throat.

He didn’t ask. He never asked right away.

Instead, he tilted his head, studying me like I was a storm he’d decided to walk into anyway.

“You look like you’re carrying winter itself tonight, love.”

I poured another glass of whiskey, didn’t offer him one.

“And you look like you’re hunting,” I said, voice flat.

He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Then, without a word, he left.

I didn’t think much of it. Azrael came and went like smoke.

But minutes later, the door opened again.

This time, he carried a plate.

Warm apple pie — still steaming, cinnamon and sugar thick in the air, crust golden and flaky.

He set it on the low table in front of me like it was the most natural thing in the world for a high-born incubus to steal dessert from the kitchens.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

A slow, unwilling smile pulled at my lips — small, but real.

He sat across from me, poured himself wine from my decanter, and watched me take the first bite.

Sweet. Warm. Simple.

I hadn’t tasted anything like it since… gods, I couldn’t remember.

He waited until I’d eaten half before speaking.

“What’s happening, Nyx?”

I licked cinnamon from my thumb, leaned forward, and stole the wine glass from his hand.

Took a slow sip.

Then leaned in closer — close enough to feel the heat of him — and pressed my lips to his.

Let the wine pass from my mouth to his.

Pulled back just enough to lick the last drop from his lower lip, slow and deliberate.

He growled low, hand coming up to grip my jaw — not hard, just holding.

“You’re not yourself tonight, seductress.”

I met his gaze, violet eyes steady.

“I have never been myself, Az.”

A pause.

Just the sound of hellfire crackling and our breathing.

Then his thumb brushed my cheek — gentle, almost reverent.

He didn’t say I was wrong.

Didn’t tell me to let it go.

He just pulled me into his lap, wrapped his arms around me like the cold couldn’t touch me there, and let me rest my head against his shoulder.

For a minute, I let myself be held.

No performance. No claws. No mask.

Just warm skin and steady heartbeat and the scent of smoke and sin.

Then I pulled back, smiled — sharp and alive again.

“Yeah…” I whispered, nipping his jaw. “Fuck that.”

I stood, tail curling around his wrist, tugging him up with me.

“Wanna party?”

His grin was slow, wicked, and utterly relieved.

“Thought you’d never ask.”