The night was heavy with the scent of rain and roses, a storm looming on the horizon, much like the one brewing within Hazel's chest.
The palace halls were silent—eerily so—save for the distant rumble of thunder and the quiet tapping of her bare feet against the cold stone floor. Hazel wandered aimlessly, her silk nightgown clinging to her body, translucent under the dim light of flickering torches. She hadn't meant to leave her chambers, but sleep had evaded her, chased away by the taste of Azrael's words… and his touch.
She paused near the open courtyard, the garden bathed in moonlight. The petals of the blood-red roses gleamed, wet from the evening mist. Her breath caught in her throat when she sensed it—his presence.
Azrael stood beneath the great willow, cloaked in black, as if woven from the shadows themselves. The fire in his crimson eyes shimmered faintly, barely visible, like dying embers. But when his gaze lifted and met hers, it sparked to life again.
She should have run.
She didn't.
Instead, she stepped forward, drawn to him like a moth to a flame, despite the way his presence scorched her soul.
"You roam the halls like a ghost," he said softly, his voice low and smoky, curling around her like silk. "What is it that haunts you, Princess?"
Hazel swallowed the lump in her throat. "You," she whispered.
Azrael's expression didn't shift—but something flickered in his eyes, a brief flash of hunger… and something deeper. A flicker of torment.
He reached for her slowly, almost reverently, as if afraid she might vanish. But she didn't pull away when his fingers brushed her cheek. They were warm. Too warm.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice trembling.
"And yet here we are."
The tension between them stretched thin, pulled taut like a blade. And when his thumb grazed her lower lip, Hazel's breath hitched.
"You carry fire in you, Hazel," Azrael murmured. "But no one's ever dared to light it."
Her lips parted slightly, and he took that as invitation—or perhaps it was surrender.
His mouth claimed hers.
It was not gentle.
It was searing, consuming, and full of hunger held back for too long. Heat exploded through her veins as his hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her into the hard lines of his body. His lips were feverish, demanding, like he'd been starved of touch and she was the only cure.
Hazel gasped into his mouth, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt. She should've pushed him away.
She kissed him harder.
The storm finally broke above them, rain pouring down in sheets, soaking them instantly. But neither moved. The water only added to the heat between them, his lips trailing fire across her mouth, her jaw, the hollow of her throat.
"You taste like sin," he growled against her skin.
"You are sin," she whispered, breathless.
He chuckled darkly, lifting her effortlessly off the ground and pressing her back against the cold marble pillar. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist as he kissed her again, rougher now, the kind of kiss that promised ruin.
But she didn't care.
Not tonight.
Because something inside her—something ancient, wild, and powerful—was waking up.
And it responded to him.
The Devil's Son.
Her cursed prince.
Their kiss wasn't just lust.
It was prophecy.
And with that kiss, the fire inside her had finally been lit.