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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CASSIEL

Blackridge’s office is a study in oppressive grandeur with dark wood, shadowed corners, and books that whisper ancient, forgotten secrets. He sits behind a massive desk carved from some black, petrified wood, his fingers steepled, his dark eyes fixed on us with an unnerving intensity.

CJ throws himself into a chair with a careless arrogance that I find both infuriating and insightful. He’s already composed, the fury of our fight banked, though I can still feel the residual heat of his power. I, on the other hand, am still buzzing with adrenaline, my newly acquired senses alight with the echoes of the fight. Pain, power, and the metallic tang of blood are sensations I’m still learning to categorise.

“Explain,” Blackridge says, his voice deceptively calm, yet carrying an undertone that could curdle blood.

CJ smirks. “He refuses to stay away from my girl, Sir.”

Blackridge looks like he is about to laugh but suppresses it quicker than a blink.

“This academy is not a playground for settling petty disputes, Mr Aquila.” Blackridge’s gaze shifts to me. “And you, Mr Cassiel. So eager to engage in base violence. Has your fall stripped away all semblance of celestial decorum?”

“Celestial decorum was rather stifling,” I reply, meeting his gaze without flinching and taking the second chair as casually as possible. “I find the directness of this realm refreshing.”

Blackridge’s eyes narrow, scrutinising me very carefully. He’s trying to unravel me, to understand what kind of creature has fallen into his domain.

“Your refreshing directness resulted in significant property damage and the disruption of several classes,” Blackridge states, his voice like the grinding of ancient stones. “SilverGate has rules, Mr Cassiel. Even for fallen angels.”

“And what are the consequences for breaking these rules?” I ask, genuinely curious. Punishment, like pain, is another new experience I’m eager to learn about.

CJ snorts beside me, a low sound of amusement .

Blackridge’s lips thin. “Consequences can be tailored to the individual.” He looks from me to CJ. “You two will learn to coexist. Or you will learn the limits of my patience. And by that, I mean if I see you two going at it again, you will be assigned as roommates in a new double room just for the two of you. Am I understood?”

The ancient power that comes off him is not to be taken lightly, and neither is his threat. This creature is more than just a Headmaster. He’s a force.

“Crystal,” CJ says, his earlier arrogance replaced by a grudging respect that tells me even he recognises the danger Blackridge represents.

I simply nod. Words seem insufficient.

“Good.” Blackridge waves a dismissive hand. “Now get out of my sight before I decide to be a little less lenient and a bit more forceful.”

As we leave the oppressive silence of his office, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of anticipation. SilverGate, with its monsters and its mysteries, is proving to be a far more compelling classroom than heaven ever was. And CJ Aquila, with his possessive fury and hidden depths, is perhaps the most interesting lesson of all.

“Why do you think he let us off so lightly?” I ask as we head back the way we came.

“Why are you talking to me? Do you want me to have another go at removing your head? ”

I blink at him. “That’s an interesting threat.”

“Pretty much normal when you grow up in my house,” he says with a slow smile. “My dad does love a good beheading.”

CJ’s casual mention of familial beheadings sends a flicker of genuine surprise through me, quickly followed by a surge of analytical interest. “So, the proclivity for violence is a family trait, then? Nurture as well as nature.”

He shoots me a dark look. “Just fuck off and stay away from Isolde and you won’t have to find out firsthand.”

“Ah, yes, Isolde.” I can’t help the slight smile that touches my lips. “The catalyst for so much vigorous interaction. It seems your entire social framework revolves around her proximity.”

CJ stops, turning to face me fully, his eyes narrowed. “She’s not a framework. She’s mine.”

“A possession,” I clarify, my head tilted. “Is this a common sentiment among vampires? Or specific to your lineage?”

His jaw clenches. “You ask too many questions, angel.”

“It’s how I learn.”

CJ lets out a harsh breath, almost a laugh. “You’re going to get yourself killed, analysing everything to death. ”

“Perhaps,” I concede. “But what a wonderfully instructive death it would be.”

CJ looms closer, clenching his fist in my face, but he doesn’t strike. The threat of cohabiting is a very real one. “If you see me coming, find another way to go or I might be forced to make a set of pillows out of your pretty wings, dickhead.”

I step back, eyes narrowed. “That’s too personal, areshole.” I try the insult and find I quite like how it rolls off my tongue.

CJ smiles, that icy curve of his lips. “Nothing is off the table when it comes to Isolde. Got it?” He stalks off, leaving me with the memory of Isolde’s fangs piercing my neck, and I let out a soft groan. The effect it had on my cock was something I’m eager to experience again. I know about mating, but, of course, have never had the privilege of encountering it first-hand.

The concept, so abstract from on high, now takes on a potent, almost tangible quality. CJ’s unadulterated possessiveness over Isolde is not merely territorial; it’s a primal staking of a claim that resonates with something deep and ancient. And Isolde… the memory of her fangs, the electric current of her touch, the unexpected surge of heat in my body as she fed. It wasn’t just sustenance she took; it was an awakening. A glimpse into a world of sensation I am woefully, delightfully unprepared for.

Mating is clearly more than a biological imperative. It’s a collision of power, desire, and a darkness that seems to amplify everything. CJ’s fury is a destructive force, yet Isolde draws him like a moth to an all-consuming flame, and she, in turn, flickers between fear and longing.

I always knew enlightenment wasn’t found in sterile celestial contemplation, but in the messy, exhilarating chaos of these connections. Isolde Morvoren holds a key to understanding these very un-celestial, very monstrous, and utterly captivating experiences. I’m increasingly drawn to the lesson she represents. The price of such knowledge, however, seems to involve navigating the incandescent rage of one Constantine Aquila Junior. A rather steep, yet undeniably intriguing, tuition fee, but one I’m willing to pay in order to be closer to her.