Page 51

Sierra

" W e need to plan this carefully," Rowen said, his obsidian eyes focused and intense as he paced the length of the library. "The forge isn't something to be taken lightly."

I stifled a yawn as I watched them discuss the ritual. My body felt heavy, the events of the past few days catching up with me despite my determination to stay alert. The throbbing pain in my lower abdomen had dulled to a persistent ache, but fatigue had settled deep in my bones.

"How hot is this forge exactly?" Archer asked, his ice-blue eyes narrowed in concentration. He'd stopped twirling his daggers, a sign of how focused he was on the task at hand.

Rowen's tail twitched irritably behind him. "Hot enough to melt celestial metal. Hot enough that even full-blooded demons don't venture there without protection."

"And you think I can just walk in there?" Archer raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident in his voice.

"Your demonic blood might offer some protection," Rowen replied, "but it won't be enough. Not with your mother's angelic lineage."

Callum, who had been silent for much of this exchange, leaned forward.

The strange, pale green of his eyes caught the light as he spoke.

"I can weave a protection spell," he offered, his deep voice resonating through the library.

"It won't make you immune, but it should buy you enough time to complete the ritual without. .. well, melting."

"Reassuring," Archer said dryly.

"The spell would need to cover all of us," Callum continued, ignoring his sarcasm. "Even Rowen would struggle to endure those temperatures for the duration we'll need."

My eyelids felt impossibly heavy as I listened to their discussion.

Their voices began to blur together, becoming a comforting hum that lulled me deeper into exhaustion.

Callum had given me a blanket earlier—something soft and surprisingly light that nevertheless provided wonderful warmth.

I pulled it tighter around my shoulders, curling into its embrace.

"Sierra?" Someone, Archer, I thought, called my name, but my tongue felt too heavy to respond.

I felt myself drifting, slipping away from the library and the three men as sleep claimed me. This time, there was no fear, no darkness waiting to swallow me. Instead, I found myself somewhere... beautiful.

Sunlight dappled through emerald leaves overhead, casting golden patterns on a stone path beneath my feet.

The air was thick with fragrance—not cloying or overwhelming, but a complex tapestry of scents that somehow balanced each other perfectly.

Roses and jasmine, thyme and rosemary, honeysuckle and something else I couldn't name but that reminded me of clean rain.

I followed the path, my bare feet cool against the smooth stones. Everything felt hyper-real, more vivid than even my waking sight could perceive. Colors were richer, sounds clearer—I could hear the whisper of a breeze through distant trees, the gentle trickle of water somewhere nearby.

The path curved, and suddenly the garden opened before me—an expanse of carefully tended beds bursting with flowers in every imaginable hue.

Fountains gleamed in the sunlight, water arcing in graceful streams before falling into clear pools.

And there, in the center of this paradise, two figures stood in conversation.

One was a woman with long, flowing blonde hair that caught the light like spun gold.

Even from a distance, I could see the bright blue of her eyes—the same startling ice-blue as Archer's.

There was something familiar about her face, something that triggered a sense of recognition I couldn't quite place.

The other figure made my breath catch in my throat. He was tall—impossibly so—with a presence that seemed to bend the very air around him. Light pulsed from his form, like a star breathing in and out, making it difficult to focus directly on him.

"It's time," the luminous man said, his voice like distant thunder yet somehow gentle. "It's time for my progeny to know her heritage. The stage has been set, and my granddaughter is ready to know me."

I found myself moving closer, drawn by curiosity and something deeper—a pull I couldn't explain but couldn't resist. As I approached, the pulsing light around the man seemed to dim, or perhaps my eyes were adjusting to it. Either way, I could see him more clearly now.

He stood nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a regal bearing that spoke of ancient power.

His hair—the exact same shade of silver as my own—fell past his shoulders in a straight, shimmering curtain.

But it was his eyes that captured my attention completely.

They were such a pale blue they appeared almost colorless from certain angles, like looking into the heart of a glacier.

Behind him, wings the same silver shade as his hair stretched outward before settling against his back in a relaxed position.

Something inside me recognized him on a level beyond conscious thought. It was like finding a piece of myself I hadn't known was missing—a connection that resonated in my very bones.

Without realizing it, I'd moved even closer, drawn toward him like a moth to flame. A smile spread across his perfect face, transforming his austere features into something warm and welcoming. He turned fully toward me, arms opening slightly in greeting.

"My child," he said, his voice washing over me like a physical caress. "I've been expecting you. I'm so pleased to finally meet you."

Confusion battled with the inexplicable sense of familiarity I felt. "Who the fuck are you?" I blurted out, my voice sounding harsh and discordant in this peaceful setting. "And what the fuck is going on?"

The blonde woman stepped forward quickly, hands raised in a placating gesture. "Please, don't be alarmed," she said, her voice musical and soothing. "My name is Lianna. I am Archer's mother."

That explained the resemblance—the same striking blue eyes, the same elegant bone structure. But it didn't explain anything else, especially the silver-haired angel who was looking at me with such fondness it made my chest ache.

Lianna gestured toward the imposing figure beside her. "This is Azrael, the Angel of Death."

The angel's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. His colorless eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine warmth. "And also your grandfather," he added, his voice carrying a note of pride.

I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded, as the connection I'd felt since first seeing him suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense.

" M y... grandfather?" I repeated, the words feeling foreign on my tongue.

My mind scrambled to make sense of what he'd just said. This luminous being—this literal fucking angel—was claiming to be my grandfather? The Angel of Death was my family? It seemed impossible, absurd even. And yet...

I couldn't deny the silver hair we shared, the inexplicable pull I felt toward him, the bone-deep recognition that had stirred in me the moment I'd seen him.

Azrael's smile broadened, crinkling those strange, almost colorless eyes. With a gentle motion, he extended his hand toward me.

"Come," he said, his voice like distant thunder wrapped in silk. "Let us sit for a moment."

Still dazed, I allowed him to take my hand.

His touch was warm—unexpectedly so for someone called the Angel of Death—and a current of energy passed between us, not unpleasant but startling in its intensity.

He guided me to a stone bench nestled beneath the spreading branches of a tree I didn't recognize.

The stone was cool beneath me as I sat, my bare feet brushing against soft grass.

Azrael settled beside me with fluid grace, his massive wings adjusting to accommodate the bench.

This close, I could see the intricate pattern in each silver feather, the way light seemed to move through them rather than reflect off them.

"I know this is... difficult to process," he began, his resonant voice gentle. "But I am indeed your paternal grandfather. Your father was my son."

I stared at him, trying to reconcile this revelation with everything I thought I knew about myself, about my family.

"But my father..." I started, struggling to find the words. "He was human. He abandoned us. He?—"

"Your father was half-angel," Azrael corrected softly, something like grief passing across his perfect features.

"A nephilim. And I deeply regret that I could not be part of your life until now, Sierra.

But it was necessary to bring you to where you are today, with your destined mates, ready to fulfill your purpose. "

I bristled at that. "My purpose? What the fuck does that mean? Did you... orchestrate all this? My entire life?"

Lianna stepped closer, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight. "It wasn't like that," she said, her melodious voice soothing. "The paths were laid, but the choices were yours."

Azrael nodded in agreement. "Free will is sacred, even to those of us who can see the patterns of fate. You have always made your own choices, Sierra. We simply... ensured certain opportunities would arise."

A thought struck me suddenly. My grandmother. Gran had raised me, loved me, protected me. Had she known about this? About who—what—my father really was?

"Did Gran know about this?" I asked, the question bursting from me. "About you?"

Pain flickered across Azrael's impossibly beautiful face. He nodded slowly, his silver hair catching the light with the movement.

"Your Gran knew," he confirmed, his colorless eyes filled with a depth of emotion I couldn't fully comprehend. "She was your mother's mother, but she was aware of your father's heritage. She was sworn to secrecy, a burden she carried willingly to protect you."

"Protect me from what?" I demanded, anger beginning to cut through my confusion.