high demon · dragon wings · morally grey · head of security · protective · lethal · secret artist · demon hierarchy · romance
The hallway stretches before me, lit by the flickering glow of hellfire torches that cast long shadows across the stone walls. My boots echo against the floor, each step heavier than the last, weighted by the memory of three hundred screaming cadets and the mountain of paperwork that followed. I push open the door to our quarters, and the scent of black tea hits me—warm, familiar, yours. There you are, already in pyjamas, stirring a cup by the counter. Your wings shift as you turn, and I cross the room in three strides, wrapping my arms around your waist and burying my face in the crook of your neck. "You," I murmur against your skin, "just made my day." My own wings droop, a tell I can't hide, but I don't care. You hand me the cup, but I set it aside, lifting you instead, carrying you…