Danaerys whimpered, her body curling in on itself. The mark on her neck was no longer just aching—it was burning, the heat spreading like wildfire beneath her skin. Every nerve felt alive with pain. No matter how hard she tried, her eyelids refused to lift; the weight pressing them shut was unbearable.
Her trembling hand fumbled across the bed, searching blindly. Her fingers brushed against the cool surface of her phone. With what little strength she had left, she pressed and held the power button. A faint ringing filled the air, each tone feeling miles away.
"Hey, Danae, I'm supposed to get off work, but I have to stay—" Annie's familiar voice chattered through the line. "I've been dying to tell you—" She paused suddenly. "…Danae? Are you there?"
Silence.
"Danae? Danaerys?" Annie's tone sharpened with worry. "Alright, I'm coming ov—"
Beep.
The call ended, not by her.
A long, elegant hand lowered the phone and slid it into a pocket. Above Danaerys, a shadow loomed. The man's gaze fell on her trembling form, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead. His brow furrowed. He leaned closer, his lips brushing lightly against the burning mark on her neck.
The pain stilled instantly.
Her murmurs faded, her breathing slowing. Then, with a swift motion, he lifted her into his arms. The movement jolted her enough to force her eyes half open, but all she saw was a blurred silhouette.
She tried to twist free, panic stirring, but her limbs felt heavy—useless.
"If you keep struggling," his voice was low, calm, and unnervingly certain, "trust me, I'll drop you."
Raphael strode out of the house, Danaerys cradled against him, her weight barely anything in his arms.
"Damsel in distress," Denroy muttered to Damiel.
"What will the witches say if they see this? The almighty Raphael—who makes even their High Priestess bow—carrying a helpless girl," Damiel whispered.
"Cut it out. Maybe he needs something to break up that frozen life of his," Denroy replied.
Raphael's gaze cut to them—cold, razor-sharp. Denroy immediately mimed zipping his lips and throwing away the key.
"You're the first senseless witch I've met," Damiel said before disappearing.
"Should I drive you back or—" Denroy started.
"Do you expect me to drive with her in my arms?" Raphael said, stepping into the backseat without waiting for an answer.
She shifted against him, restless in her sleep, the strap of her nightdress sliding lower until it rested against the curve of her arm. A pale line of skin caught the dim light, smooth and untouched—except for the mark on her neck.
His breath stilled. The urge to trace that curve, to feel if her skin was as soft as it looked, rose before he could shove it back down.
"Partition," he said, sharper than intended.
The glass slid up, sealing them in.
He looked down at her again. Her dark hair spilled like ink over his lap, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. The rise and fall of her breathing brushed warmth against his chest. Every part of her seemed fragile enough to shatter—and yet something about her pull was dangerous.
His gaze lingered on the bite. Anger flared first. Damn those witches. But the longer he stared, the more his thumb itched to touch it.
He gave in, just barely—fingertips brushing her neck in a whisper of contact. She stirred, her lips parting slightly. His pulse kicked hard, his hand retreating as if burned.
He covered her with his suit jacket, tightening it around her shoulders—not sure if it was to shield her from the cold… or from him.
Her lashes fluttered, her vision swimming in and out of focus. The steady rhythm of his footsteps told her they were moving fast, each step purposeful. The cool night air brushed against her damp skin, mingling with the lingering heat of the mark.
Somewhere in the haze, she realized the sound of crickets and distant traffic had faded, replaced by the muffled thud of heavy doors closing. A familiar scent drifted into her senses—polished wood, faint cologne, and the whisper of old books.
The mansion.
He carried her through the vast, dimly lit foyer without pause, his stride unbroken as he climbed the sweeping staircase. Every now and then, she caught fragments of his voice—low instructions to someone unseen, the soft click of doors locking behind them.
By the time he laid her gently on a bed draped in dark silk sheets, her breathing had steadied, though her body still trembled faintly.
"You'll be safe here," he murmured, almost to himself, as if convincing the walls as much as her. His hand lingered for a moment over the mark on her neck, not touching, but close enough that she felt the heat radiating from his skin.
Before she could form words, her eyes grew heavy again, and the world sank into darkness.