Page 22

Azrael

Two Months Later

I stood in the center of our ceremonial circle. The hanging lanterns cast long shadows across the packed dirt, illuminating patches of leather cuts and faces. My brothers. My family. They’d come to witness something none of them thought they’d ever see -- Azrael, the Angel of Death, pledging himself to a woman. The air smelled of motor oil, leather, and the sweet incense Mazida had insisted on burning “to keep evil spirits away.” I almost smiled at that. In our world, we were the evil spirits most people ran from.

The clubhouse yard had been transformed. Persian rugs covered sections of the ground, creating islands of rich color amid the dust and gravel. Lanterns hung from the surrounding trees, their flames dancing in the light evening breeze. The mix of biker grit and Middle Eastern elegance would have seemed bizarre to outsiders, but to me, it was the perfect representation of who I was -- the son of Nadia Hamdi, raised on stories of her homeland before she was brutalized and left with a child she never expected.

My brothers had formed a loose circle around me, their leather cuts displaying the Devil’s Boneyard insignia with pride. Allied clubs stood among them -- Dixie Reapers, Twisted Tides, even a few Savage Raptors who’d made the trip from a few states over. In our world, this was as close to a formal wedding as it got. No priests. No paperwork. Just witnesses and vows that meant more than any government document ever could.

My gaze found Cinder, standing tall despite his eighty-plus years. Our former president nodded at me, his white beard catching the golden light. When I’d told him about Zara, he’d just laughed and said, “About damn time someone brought that cold heart of yours back to life.”

Cold heart. That’s what they all thought I had. Maybe they were right. I’d spent years being the club’s executioner, the one they sent when someone needed to disappear permanently. I was good at it. Too good, maybe. The Middle Eastern blood that made others distrust me hadn’t been an issue for this club. They’d only seen the man I was, and the one I could become. I was different. Dangerous. Dedicated to a code of justice that extended beyond what most men could stomach. Which made me a perfect fit for this brotherhood.

Then Zara Colton had walked into my life, asking for the man they called the avenging angel.

I watched Zara step into the circle now, led by Meg, Cinder’s old lady. My breath caught in my throat. She wore a dress of deep burgundy that hugged her curves before flowing to her ankles. Gold bracelets adorned her wrists, and a delicate chain with a Devil’s Boneyard pendant rested against her collarbone -- my gift to her when she’d agreed to be my wife and not just my old lady.

The hunt for Mazida had bonded us in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Zara had seen sides of me that I’d never shown anyone -- the rage, the ruthlessness, but also the pain I carried.

I’d never believed I deserved someone like her. Still didn’t. But here she was, walking toward me, her eyes never leaving mine as the circle of bikers parted to let her through.

“Look at her,” Cinder murmured from beside me. “She’s got fire in her eyes, boy.”

Zara had that same quiet strength my mother had possessed -- the kind that couldn’t be broken, only tempered by the heat of suffering.

She reached me, and Meg stepped back. The yard fell silent.

“Brothers and sisters,” Cinder’s voice rang out, gruff but clear. “We gather to witness the joining of Azrael and Zara. Not in the eyes of any god or government, but in the eyes of their family -- us.”

I took Zara’s hands in mine, surprised to find my own were trembling slightly. I, who had faced down death more times than I could count, was nervous about speaking vows to this small woman who barely reached my shoulder.

“In our world,” Cinder continued, “we make our own rules, our own families. Today, these two choose each other, binding their lives together by choice and blood.”

At those words, I released Zara’s hands and reached for the cuff in my pocket. Hammered silver with delicate Arabic calligraphy woven through patterns of interlocking chains. My mother’s last gift to me, something she’d worn every day.

A murmur went through the crowd. No one had seen it before, and I had to admit it was a work of art.

I carefully held it between my fingers. The silver caught the lantern light, throwing patterns across Zara’s face.

“This belonged to my mother,” I said, my voice lower and softer than usual. “She gave it to me before she died, told me to save it for someone worth sharing my soul with.” I paused, swallowing hard against the emotion threatening to choke me. “I never thought I’d find that person.”

Zara’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but her gaze remained steady on mine. Strong. Unflinching.

“The writing,” I continued, turning the band so she could see the calligraphy, “says ‘Justice through love.’ My mother believed that true justice could only come from a place of love for humanity. Not hatred, not vengeance. Love.” I took a deep breath, feeling more exposed than I’d ever been. “I’ve spent my life dealing out justice, Zara. But it wasn’t until you that I remembered the love part.”

A single tear escaped, trailing down her cheek. I reached up and swept it away with my thumb.

“Zara, will you be my partner in this life? Will you stand with me, ride with me, fight with me until death takes us?”

My hand brushed against hers as I held out the band, feeling the subtle tremble of her small frame. Around us, the circle of bikers stood silent, waiting.

“Yes,” she said, her voice clear and unwavering despite her tears. “Until death and whatever comes after.”

I slipped the band onto her wrist, where it fit as though it had been made for her. Then I reached into my cut pocket and pulled out a second band -- wider, heavier, but with the same intertwined patterns and script.

“I had this made to match,” I said quietly. “So I could wear your mark as you wear mine.”

She took it from me, her fingers warm against my palm, and slid it onto my wrist. The metal was cool against my skin, but it warmed quickly, becoming a part of me as she had.

“By the witness of your brothers and sisters,” Cinder’s voice broke through the moment, “you are now joined. Those who ride together, stay together.”

Then, as if on cue, engines roared to life. Brothers who had parked their bikes around the perimeter revved their motors in approval, the growl of Harleys creating a symphony of mechanical power that vibrated through the ground beneath our feet.

I pulled Zara to me, one hand at the small of her back, the other tangling in her hair as I claimed her mouth with mine. The kiss was equal parts tenderness and possession, a promise of both protection and passion. When we finally broke apart, the cheers had grown louder, punctuated by whistles and the continued roar of engines.

“You sure about this?” I asked her, our foreheads touching, my words for her alone. “Life with me won’t be easy.”

She smiled, fierce and beautiful. “I didn’t come looking for easy, Azrael. I came looking for you.”

Around us, the celebration was already beginning. Tables laden with food appeared as if by magic, bottles were opened, music started playing. But for that moment, we remained in our own world, lost in each other’s gaze as the chaos of our family swirled around us.

I had been called the Angel of Death for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to bring life instead. But with Zara’s hands in mine and my mother’s band around her wrist, I remembered. This wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning.