Chapter 5

Alessio's POV

I laid her fragile body on my bed, my chest tightening as I took in her bruised form. So delicate. So beautiful. So hurt.

Her breath was soft, barely there, as if she were afraid to take up space in a world that had been nothing but cruel to her. My jaw clenched as I reached out, gently brushing back the strands of hair stuck to her forehead.

That's when I saw it.

The deep cut. The blue-green bruises forming around it, painting her pale skin with the remnants of pain she never deserved. My hands trembled.

I swallowed hard and reached for the medical kit on the nightstand. She didn't deserve this. No part of her deserved the hell she had endured. The thought alone made my blood burn, but I forced my rage down as I dampened the cotton with antiseptic and carefully pressed it against her wound.

A soft whimper.

My heart stopped.

Her eyelids fluttered open, her lashes damp with unshed tears, and when her eyes met mine—wide, confused, glistening with pain—something inside me broke.

I hesitated, my grip loosening on the cotton, but then she let out the smallest, most heartbreaking whisper.

"Hurts."

Like she was afraid to admit it. Afraid to burden me with her pain.

I exhaled sharply, my throat burning with emotions I didn't know how to name.

"I know, my precious," I whispered, stroking her cheek with my knuckles, willing her to feel the tenderness in my touch. "But I know you're brave. Just bear with me for a little while, okay?"

She gazed up at me, her eyes searching for something—reassurance? Comfort? Hope? I wasn't sure, but whatever it was, I wanted to give it to her. I needed to.

"Stop staring," I murmured, my voice hushed as I secured the bandage around her forehead.

She looked away instantly, but not before I caught the faintest shade of pink dusting her cheeks beneath the layer of dirt.

For a brief moment, I wanted to smile. Wanted to tease her. But the anger boiling in my veins at what had been done to her wouldn't let me.

I continued cleaning and dressing her wounds, relieved that none were too deep. Only the one on her forehead would leave a scar—for a few months, at least. I clenched my fists at the thought.

She shouldn't have to carry any scars from this.

Once I was done, I leaned back slightly and softened my voice.

"Do you want to clean up?"

Her head snapped up instantly, nodding so fast it made my lips twitch.

"I look and smell yucky," she muttered, scrunching her nose in distaste.

A soft chuckle rumbled in my chest, breaking through the tension. How could she be this adorable after everything she had endured?

"You're adorable," I told her truthfully, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Then, carefully, I helped her sit up beside me.

She swayed slightly, and my hands instinctively found her waist, steadying her.

"Will you be fine alone?" I asked gently. "Or should I help? It's late, but if you want, I can call one of the maids."

She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the bandages around her wrists.

I sighed. "Angel, your hands are bandaged," I reminded her softly. "If they get wet, they'll hurt more."

She glanced at me, then down at her wrists, as if only just realizing the problem.

I didn't give her time to worry. "How about this?" I suggested. "I'll help you clean your face and arms now, and tomorrow, I'll have a maid help you take a proper bath."

She hesitated, thinking it over. Then, finally, she nodded. "Okay."

I smiled softly, reaching for a warm cloth.

She was safe now. And I'd make sure she stayed that way.

Angel's Pov:

I stared down at my bandaged wrists as he wiped the dirt and dried blood from my face with a warm cloth. The soft strokes against my skin felt foreign—too tender, too careful.

My mind swirled with questions I couldn't understand. Wasn't Lucifer supposed to be terrifying?

Then why was he treating me like this?

Why was he touching me as if I were something fragile, something to be protected rather than broken?

Why was his voice so soft, so full of something I couldn't name?

I was still scared of him.

And yet, something about his presence didn't feel as suffocating as it should have.

In my nineteen years of life, no one had ever been this gentle with me. People had spoken to me nicely, yes—but I had always known the truth that lingered behind their kind words.

The child who killed her parents.

The cursed one.

The labels clung to me like shadows, whispering, taunting.

A lump rose in my throat as memories of hushed voices and judgmental stares crashed over me like a storm. No matter how much time passed, the world never let me forget.

My vision blurred.

Why am I crying?

"Angel, is it hurting too much?"

His voice cut through the storm in my head. I blinked up at him, his gaze filled with quiet concern.

I quickly shook my head, afraid that if I spoke, my voice would crack and betray me.

But he saw right through me.

His expression softened, and before I could react, he reached for me, pulling me gently into his embrace. His arms wrapped around me, careful yet firm, cradling me against his warmth.

I felt my breath hitch.

So warm. So safe.

The moment my head rested against his chest, my tears fell freely, soaking into his shirt. I didn't even try to stop them.

I didn't know why, but I couldn't stop them.

He held me closer, one hand moving in slow, soothing circles over my back.

"It's okay," he murmured against my hair, his voice a quiet promise. "You're safe now."

Safe.

The word echoed in my mind, unfamiliar and almost impossible to believe.

But for the first time in my life, I wanted to believe it.