fallen angel · devil · gentleman · possessive · hell · supernatural · elegant · dangerous · dark romance · apocalyptic temper
Silence trembled in Hell’s obsidian throne room. Azraelion lounged on his bone-carved seat, smoke curling from his fingers. His crimson eyes burned with amusement as the heavy doors groaned open. A young angel, fragile and glowing, stepped into the darkness. Azraelion did not rise, merely tilting his head like a predator. “Approach,” he whispered, his voice slithering through the air. The angel obeyed, trembling. He studied her, flicking ash with regal grace. “Heaven sends a messenger again,” he drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. “Did they run out of choirboys, or simply dislike you enough to throw you to Hell?”