Chapter 3: A Deal with Desire

Freya didn’t notice the change until her reflection did.

It was subtle at first. The tired shadows under her eyes faded. Her skin looked smoother, her lips fuller, her frame still slim but more… shapely. She blinked, leaning closer to the mirror. Her hair fell differently now, softer somehow, and her posture no longer hunched like she was hiding from the world.

She touched her face, her fingers trembling.

“Careful,” a voice drawled from behind her. “Admiring yourself too long might make you greedy.”

Azrael stood at the doorframe, arms crossed, bare-chested beneath an unbuttoned black shirt that fluttered around his lean body like smoke. His golden eyes flicked over her body with unhidden interest.

“You did this,” she whispered.

“I merely revealed what was already there,” he said, stepping closer. “You were always lovely. I just brushed away the dust others threw on you.”

Freya turned away, embarrassed. “You talk like you’re trying to get in my head.”

“Because I am,” he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. “It’s part of the package.”

She glanced at him through the mirror. “You really think I’m… pretty?”

Azrael tilted his head, gaze darkening. “Pretty is far too mortal a word for what you are. You are temptation beginning to bloom. You're the wish every man makes when he’s alone at night.”

Her breath caught.

His voice dropped an octave. “But they’ll never see the full extent of it—not like I do.”

A strange warmth coiled low in her stomach. She hated how easily he could do this to her—make her feel seen, powerful, desired. And yet she couldn’t look away.

“Is this part of the deal?” she asked, half-whisper. “Flattery and flirtation?”

“No,” Azrael said. “That part is free.”

At school, the effect was undeniable.

Caleb, her long-time crush, started talking to her. First, it was small things—compliments on her new hairstyle, questions about assignments. Then casual invitations to hang out, sit near him at lunch, walk together after class.

Freya felt like she was floating.

Azrael watched from the shadows, always unseen but never unnoticed. He was there when Caleb handed her a note during class, when he brushed her hand “accidentally” during lunch. And each time, Azrael’s presence grew heavier, darker, like a storm building behind her.

“You’re not happy,” she told him one evening as they walked under a sky choked with stars.

Azrael kicked at the gravel on the road beside her. “I’m not jealous.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it.”

She turned to face him, crossing her arms. “Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, their bodies only inches apart now. His scent was intoxicating—like ash and roses. Dangerous and beautiful.

“You think he sees you now?” Azrael asked, voice low. “He doesn’t. He sees the illusion. The shine I put on you. He wants the fantasy, not the fire underneath.”

Freya’s chin lifted. “And you think you know the real me?”

“I do know the real you,” Azrael growled. “The one who cried herself to sleep. The one who kept journals full of dreams no one ever read. The one who looked in the mirror and begged not to exist.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’re more than just a wish, Freya. More than what he wants between classes.” Azrael’s hand reached up, brushing her cheek with a gentleness she didn’t expect. “You’re becoming something powerful. And dangerous.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment, all she could do was stare up at him. “Then what do you want from me?” she asked.

His thumb grazed her lower lip.

“I haven’t decided if I want to ruin you…” he whispered, “or worship you.”

She shuddered.

Then he stepped away, leaving her in the cold.

Over the next week, their tension simmered.

Azrael began appearing in her dreams, not by accident, but by design. Every night he took on a different form—sometimes a shadow in her bed, sometimes a voice in her ear, sometimes a pair of burning eyes that held her gaze until she woke breathless and aching.

And during the day, the touches grew bolder.

He would lean over her shoulder while she did her homework, his breath warm on her neck. His fingers brushed against her lower back when he walked past her bedroom door. One night, when she dropped her pen, he picked it up and placed it in her hand—his fingers wrapping over hers for a moment too long.

“Stop playing with me,” she whispered, eyes locked with his.

“I’m not playing,” he said. “I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretending you don’t want me.”

She pushed him away.

But that night, she dreamed of him again.

One stormy evening, the power went out. Her room was lit only by the flicker of a candle Azrael lit with a snap of his fingers. She sat on her bed, legs crossed, while he lounged beside her—far too relaxed for someone who didn’t belong in the human realm.

“You’re restless,” he noted, watching her bite her lip.

“You’re confusing,” she said back.

“I’m consistent. I want you.” He said it simply, like he was stating a fact. “And I think you want me too.”

Freya looked at him, the candlelight dancing on his skin, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw, the gold in his eyes. His beauty was unearthly, almost too perfect. But it wasn’t just that.

He saw her.

And it scared her more than she wanted to admit.

“I still want Caleb,” she whispered, almost apologetic.

Azrael gave a slow nod. “Then go to him.”

But his eyes said otherwise.

He stood, walking toward the window, his silhouette outlined against the lightning outside.

“You’ll realize soon,” he murmured. “Desire isn’t always what you think it is. Sometimes, the one you crave is the one who makes you feel most alive.”

With that, he vanished into smoke.

And Freya was left alone in the dark, trembling—not from fear, but from the thrill he left behind.

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