I lower myself onto the plush sofa, the silence in the room a living, fragile thing. He sits across from me, a freshly bathed angel trembling in a gilded cage. The air carries the faint, clean scent of soap and something inherently sweet—his omega pheromones, a stark contrast to the fear that radiates from him in waves.
Of course he's scared, the thought echoes in my mind, a bitter ache settling in my chest. The villain Zyren carved that fear into him, day by day, cruelty by cruelty.
My eyes catch on his hands, resting limply in his lap. Then, they drift to his feet, peeking from beneath the hem of his soft trousers. My breath hitches.
Angry, crimson rings mar his pale skin. The brutal souvenirs of chains. The physical proof of everything I read about, now a visceral, sickening reality. My poor Angel. What did he put you through?
A small porcelain bowl of ointment sits on the table. I reach for it, my movements slow, deliberate. I won't startle him. I won't be him. I take a clean cotton pad, the white stark against my fingers, and dip it into the cool, herbal-scented balm.
"This will help," I murmur, my voice low and, I hope, nothing like Zyren's.
I raise my hand, aiming for the bruise on his ankle.
He flinches back as if struck, a violent, full-body recoil that shoves him against the back of the sofa. His wide, golden eyes are pure panic. "Stay away from me!" The words are a trembling whisper, shredded by terror.
My heart cracks. "Please," I urge, my own voice softening to a plea. "Don't be scared. I'm not going to hurt you."
He just stares, his chest rising and falling too fast. I sigh, the sound heavy with a helplessness I feel deep in my bones. Of course. How could he believe a promise from the lips of his tormentor? How can he trust this face, this body I'm trapped in?
"Please," I try again, holding the cotton pad where he can see it. "Let me just… it's just ointment. I swear."
I move again, with an excruciating slowness that feels like a prayer. My eyes stay locked on his, trying to pour every ounce of my sincerity into this cursed gaze. This time, when the cool, medicated cotton makes contact with the abused skin of his foot, he doesn't pull away. A shudder runs through him, but he holds still.
His shocked gaze is a physical weight on me. I can feel his confusion, his disbelief. This simple act of care is the most monstrously out-of-character thing Zyren has ever done.
Gently, I take his wrist. He doesn't resist. His skin is cool and delicate under my touch. I apply the ointment to every red mark, every shadow of a bruise, my touch as light as I can make it. I don't want to cause even a moment more of pain for this poor, broken omega.
A maid chooses that moment to enter, setting a breakfast tray on the table with a quiet clatter. The spell is broken.
"Let's…" I begin, my voice a little hoarse. Then my eyes fall on the food, and my train of thought derails completely.
In my whole life, I've never seen food like this. Soft, golden-brown pancakes dusted with powdered sugar, a crystal dish of glistening berries, a delicate porcelain cup of what smells like rich hot chocolate. It's a feast. A work of art.
And my stomach, traitorous and deeply ingrained with the hunger of Neon, lets out a long, low growl.
Oh, no. So embarrassing.
A hot flush creeps up my neck. I force a small, embarrassed smile. "I'm… I'm starving. You must be too. Let's eat."
The maid serves us with practiced efficiency. I pick up my fork, my movements still feeling foreign in this refined body, and quickly take a bite of the pancake.
It's… heaven. Fluffy, warm, and sweet. A soft, involuntary sound of pleasure escapes me. "Ahmm…"
Then I catch Angel's expression. He's staring at me, his fork untouched, his face a mask of pure, uncomprehending disbelief.
Oh. Right.
I'm Zyren. Zyren eats this for breakfast every day. He would barely glance at it. But I'm Neon. I've never eaten a perfect meal in my entire life.
"Why aren't you eating?" I ask, pulling myself together.
He hesitates, the old fear flickering back into his eyes.
An idea strikes me. It's a risk, but this entire situation is a risk. I take another deliberate bite from my own fork, then, holding his gaze, I gently extend my fork towards him, offering him the bite.
"Please," I say, my voice soft but firm. "You need to eat. If you don't, you'll get sick. Please, just a little?"
I smile. It feels shaky, but it's real.
He stares at the offered food, then at my face, his internal war visible in the tight line of his mouth. Finally, hesitantly, he leans forward and takes the bite.
A wave of relief so powerful it makes me lightheaded washes over me. "Good," I whisper, my smile widening. "Now, let's have a good breakfast together."
Slowly, carefully, he picks up his own fork and begins to eat.
Thank God.
I look down at my own plate, the reality of the situation settling over me. I changed the starting point. I saved him. I fed him. The first domino has been toppled. I'm sure this means I've steered myself away from the worst of the immediate trouble.
But a new, chilling thought follows the relief. The story I knew is now a ghost. The path ahead is unwritten, shrouded in the mist of my own making. It's both terrifying… and utterly thrilling.