The room was silent except for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. A warm amber glow from a single lamp illuminated the space in soft golden light, casting long shadows across the walls. The curtains were drawn, shutting out the world beyond.
Isabella sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers nervously twisting in her lap. She had changed into a simple silk nightdress the maid had left for her—soft grey, with thin straps and a hem that kissed her thighs. She had hesitated before putting it on, unsure of what the night would hold. But now, sitting in the hush of Azrael's temporary bedroom in his father's mansion, she felt the weight of something unspoken pressing between them.
Azrael stood by the window, his back to her, his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. He'd taken off his jacket, leaving only his dark shirt—unbuttoned at the top—and the tension in his shoulders.
"I can go back to my room," Isabella said quietly, almost unsure if she meant it.
Azrael turned slowly, his gaze meeting hers. His eyes were different in this light—softer, but no less intense. He studied her for a long moment, then crossed the room in slow, careful steps.
"No," he said, his voice low and firm. "Stay."
She didn't move. Neither did he.
The silence wrapped around them like silk, and then—gently—he sat beside her. Close, but not quite touching.
"You're quiet tonight," she murmured.
"So are you."
She turned her head toward him, and their eyes locked. Everything that had been building since the night he sent her that dress… since the club… since the night she first looked into his eyes and felt something she couldn't name—it all lingered between them now, heavier than ever.
"Are you afraid?" he asked, voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
Isabella shook her head slowly. "No. Just… unsure."
Azrael reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered along her jaw, tracing the edge of her cheek with a tenderness that stole her breath.
"You don't have to be sure tonight," he said. "You just have to be here."
His hand moved down, resting lightly against the curve of her neck, his thumb pressing gently to her skin as if feeling the rhythm of her pulse. Her breath hitched.
She leaned into him.
Their lips met slowly—hesitantly. It was soft at first, like the delicate unfolding of a secret. Then deeper. Warmer. His hand cupped the back of her neck as he kissed her with quiet intensity, as though he had been holding this back for too long.
She pressed closer, her hands finding the fabric of his shirt, fingers curling into it. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, the slow burn of desire igniting between them. Azrael's lips moved to her jaw, then lower, tracing a path down the side of her neck. His breath was warm against her skin.
"You feel like fire," he murmured.
She gasped softly as his hands settled at her waist, holding her like something precious, something breakable—but wanted.
Isabella's hands moved over his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breath beneath her palms. She could feel his heartbeat—it wasn't like hers. It was slower, deeper, but it was there. She leaned into him, pressing her forehead to his.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she whispered.
"I do," he said. "Just follow me."
Azrael's hands slid gently along her sides, the fabric of her nightdress soft beneath his touch. He moved slowly, reverently, like every inch of her mattered. When his hand brushed the curve of her chest, she gasped softly. He paused.
"Okay?" he asked.
She nodded.
He continued, his touch warm and sure. She tilted her head back slightly, eyes fluttering closed as his lips brushed across her collarbone, then down to her shoulder. Every place he touched sent a thrill through her chest, her stomach, her thighs. It wasn't rushed—it wasn't about urgency. It was about presence.
When he pulled her gently into his lap, the motion was so fluid, so natural, she barely noticed until she was there—straddling him, arms around his neck, their bodies pressed together. She felt the heat of him through the thin layers of fabric between them. He kissed her again, deeper now, his hands at her hips, his mouth tasting every breath she gave him.
Her hands found the buttons of his shirt and undid them one by one, exposing the lean strength of his torso. His skin was smooth, pale, unmarred—except for a faint scar above his ribs. She touched it gently.
He looked into her eyes. "A long time ago."
She nodded. No questions.
The night continued slowly, tenderly. Their bodies met in soft discovery. Clothes slipped away like petals falling from a flower, and they explored each other not with hunger, but with reverence. It wasn't about control or dominance. It was about the space between their breaths, the tremble in her thighs when his lips brushed lower, the way her fingers threaded through his hair when she whispered his name.
They didn't say much. They didn't need to.
And when they finally lay together beneath the sheets, her head resting against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, it wasn't just physical closeness—it was something deeper. Something quietly terrifying.
Because for the first time, Isabella felt it fully.
She was falling for him.
She remembered the contract She signed, it was forbidden for them to fall in love, but how would she survive this?