2 : Their God
Evelyn
The world shattered into light and agony. Pain split through me, a blinding storm that blurred thought and sound alike. Footsteps thundered behind me, closer—too close—and instinct screamed: Move. Don’t let them finish you like prey.
But my limbs were leaden, my body a useless weight. I tried to rise, to crawl, to do anything other than lie exposed on the ground. All I managed was a hoarse whimper before a blow struck, knocking the air from my lungs. The world tilted, doubled, spun. I saw stars bursting behind my eyes, then only darkness—thick, seductive, inescapable.
Just before it swallowed me whole, a sound tore through the haze.
A growl.
Low, guttural, inhuman. It vibrated through the earth, through my bones, through my skull until my teeth ached. It wasn’t a voice. It was a warning.
Then came the whispers.
“Oh no… we angered the Master.”
“Forgive us! We didn’t know she was the one!”
The one?
Terror spiked through the fog. I forced my eyes open. The vines that had attacked me writhed now in fear, their movements frantic and disordered. And then—hands. Two impossibly strong hands seized me, pulling me up and against something solid, vast, and burning with unnatural heat.
“Stay with me,” a voice ordered above me.
It was deep, resonant, yet threaded with something gentler than I expected—command and comfort braided together. I wanted to obey. To fight the pull of the dark. But my body betrayed me; sobs slipped out instead, weak and desperate.
“Please…” I whispered. “Stop.”
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, his breath brushing my ear, low as thunder over distant hills. “Nobody will hurt you anymore.”
And just like that, the pain receded—washed away as though it had never been. The darkness, suddenly softer, drew me in.
I let it take me.
Waking felt like clawing my way through water—thick, cold, heavy. My body ached, but the pain was muted, dull, unreal. I surfaced with a gasp, blinking into dimness.
A ceiling, dark wood, carved and elegant. Not mine. My room was white, sterile, safe.
Panic tightened in my chest.
I turned my head and froze.
Someone was sitting in the shadows by the arched window. A man—bare-chested, wearing only dark pants that hung low on his hips, his powerful form illuminated by the faint grey light before dawn. A glass of amber liquid caught in his hand.
And then I saw it.
The tattoo.
A curling, ancient design, black and faintly glowing under his skin. The memory hit me like a hammer—moonlight, the vines, the cloaked figure from the gates. Him.
I gasped.
His head turned. Those golden eyes, molten and sharp, met mine. My heart stopped.
He was—God help me—beautiful. In the kind of way that felt wrong, otherworldly. His features were all precision and edges: strong jaw, high cheekbones, dark hair that fell carelessly across his forehead. Faint scars cut elegant lines across his face—one over his eye, one on his cheek, another by his mouth—each a mark that only deepened the terrible magnetism of him. He wasn’t a man you looked at; he was a force you survived.
I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
The room around us was vast and drenched in luxury—dark wood, velvet drapes, the soft glow of a fire crackling in the hearth. The faint scent of pine smoke and something darker—something him—hung in the air. Through the window stretched an endless ocean, its surface bruised with the colors of pre-dawn.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was dreaming.
Then he moved.
Not a sound. Not even a whisper of fabric. He rose from the chair like a shadow uncoiling, his sheer size commanding the room. Every step was deliberate, predatory, until the air itself seemed to bend around him.
I should have screamed. Run. Fought. But instead—impossibly—I felt safe.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice rolled through the silence, smooth, deep, and unnervingly calm.
I swallowed hard. “Where am I?”
He tilted his head, golden eyes steady. “My home. You were injured. I saved your life.”
Saved me?
I looked down, realizing only then what I was wearing—an oversized white shirt, black panties. No bra. Heat flushed through me. Had he…?
My gaze snapped back to him. He was watching, expression unreadable, arms crossed over his chest, carved like marble come alive.
“You are…?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
“Raphael,” he said simply. “I work for the FBI.”
The words landed like a bad joke. “The… FBI?”
His lips twitched, the faintest ghost of amusement—or deception.
I licked my lips nervously. “You realize I’m dangerous?”
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—confusion, then mild irritation. “What are you talking about?”
I managed a shaky smile. “If you’ve kidnapped me, you should know I fight back.”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating.
He just stared, his gaze stripping away pretense, reading every tremor, every heartbeat. The intensity of it made my pulse trip.
“Why am I here, Raphael?” I asked, finally, my voice breaking. “What are you going to do with me?”
The corners of his mouth curved, slow and deliberate, like a predator amused by a cornered rabbit. “What do you think?” he murmured.
My mind raced—two conclusions, both terrifying. “You think I’ll talk,” I whispered, “or you brought me here for yourself.”
His smile deepened, not cruel, but devastating. He stepped closer, and the room seemed to shrink.
His scent enveloped me—smoke, spice, something wild. My breath hitched. The world tilted again, but not from pain this time. My head turned slightly, involuntarily, drawn toward the warmth radiating from him. His nearness was dizzying, intoxicating—an invisible gravity I couldn’t resist.
And then sanity snapped back, sharp as a slap. I jerked away, pressing into the headboard, chest heaving. What is wrong with me?
He said nothing, only watched. The faintest shadow of a frown creased his brow.
When his hand rose, I flinched, closing my eyes, waiting for the strike that never came.
Silence.
Then warmth.
His fingers brushed my cheek—slow, deliberate, reverent. The touch sent a jolt through me. I opened my eyes, and what I saw there stopped my breath.
Not fury. Not mockery.
Worry.
It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it was real.
For one disorienting heartbeat, everything inside me shifted. The fear didn’t vanish—but something else took its place. Something far more dangerous.
Because the way Raphael looked at me now wasn’t the way a captor looked at his prisoner. It was the way a storm regarded the sea—recognizing itself in the chaos.
And deep inside, where logic faltered and instinct ruled, I knew: whatever I was, whatever he was… our fates were already tangled.
The vines had called me Queen.
And he—whatever he was—had answered.
