The Marquise of Fallen Angels

Eva’s POV

I don’t remember what warmth feels like.

I don’t remember kindness.

I don’t remember love.

But I remember pain.

I remember the crack of the belt against my skin, the sharp sting that comes first, and then the slow, searing burn that follows. I remember the feeling of my body curling inward, instinctively trying to protect itself even though I know it won’t make a difference. I remember biting my tongue, tasting blood, holding back the scream because I know if I make a sound, it’ll be worse.

I remember the way my so-called mother—no, not mother, she’s never been that—looks at me with disgust as I lie curled on the filthy floor. “Get up,” she snaps, her voice filled with the same hatred I’ve heard for as long as I can remember.

I try. My arms tremble as I push against the cold tile, but my ribs protest violently. My vision blurs. I don’t know if it’s from exhaustion, pain, or the hunger clawing at my insides.

She doesn’t wait. Her foot connects with my stomach, stealing what little air I have left. I gasp, curling tighter. My body knows how to take a beating. It has learned.

“You’re worthless,” she spits. “Nothing but a waste of space.”

The words don’t hurt anymore. Not like they used to. They are just noise, empty and meaningless, because I already know. I have always known.

I want to close my eyes. Just for a second. Just to drift away from this moment, to pretend I am somewhere else.

But then I hear it.

Footsteps. Slow. Heavy.

I freeze.

A moment later, the door creaks open, and my blood runs cold.

He’s home.

The floorboards groan beneath his weight as he steps inside, the stench of alcohol clinging to him like rot. My body tenses, every nerve in me screaming run, but there’s nowhere to go. There’s never anywhere to go.

He exhales, long and slow, the way he always does when he’s deciding how bad it’s going to be tonight.

And then he smiles.

Fear slams into me like a tidal wave.

“I heard you talking back,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Did you forget the rules?”

My stomach twists violently. I shake my head. No. No, I didn’t.

But it doesn’t matter.

Nothing ever does.

The first hit is always the worst. The shock of it, the way it reverberates through my skull, making everything go white for a second. Then the next one comes. And the next. And the next.

I stop counting.

By the time he’s done, I can’t move. I don’t even try. I taste blood. My ribs feel like they’re caving in, my skin raw and burning. My body is just… a thing. A vessel for pain. I don’t know how long I lie there. Minutes. Hours.

But at some point, through the haze of agony, a thought rises.

I have to leave.

I don’t know where the thought comes from. I’ve never let myself hope before. But tonight, something in me shifts. Maybe it’s because my body has finally reached its limit. Or maybe it’s because, for the first time in my life, I realize that if I stay, one day they will kill me.

And no one will care. That should terrify me. It doesn’t. Because maybe that’s what I’ve always been waiting for. An ending.

But something inside me whispers, not like this. Not in their hands.

So I wait.

I lie there, unmoving, listening to their footsteps retreat. The house grows quiet. The world outside is dark.

And then, when I’m sure they’re asleep, I move.

Every muscle screams in protest, but I grit my teeth. Move, Eva. Get up.

Somehow, I do. I make it to the door. My hands shake so hard I can barely grip the knob. The air outside is cold against my bruised skin, the night swallowing me whole as I step onto the pavement.

I don’t know where I’m going. I just run. Each step is agony, my bare feet slapping against the rough concrete, my vision swimming. But I don’t stop. I can’t stop. The city is a blur of neon and shadow, people passing by without a second glance. I don’t know how long I run before my body finally gives out.

The ground rushes up to meet me. The last thing I see before everything fades is the streetlights flickering above me.

I wake up to light. Blinding. Harsh. Unnatural. For a second, I don’t know where I am. Panic floods my chest. My body jerks, trying to move, but something tugs at my arm. I look down. An IV. A hospital bed.

No.

I shove at the blankets, trying to sit up. Pain rips through me. A soft gasp escapes my lips.

A voice, gentle, unfamiliar, fills the air.

“You’re safe.”

I don’t believe her. I force myself to look up. A woman stands by the bed, her eyes soft with something that looks like pity. Pity is worse than pain.

“We found you unconscious,” she says, stepping closer. “You were in bad shape. But you’re okay now.”

I barely hear her. My heart is hammering, my body already preparing for the inevitable. They’re going to take me back.

They always do.

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I shake my head.

She sighs. “That’s alright. We’ll figure it out.”

And then—

A tremor in the air.

Something unseen presses against my chest, heavy, suffocating. My ears ring, and suddenly, I feel it—

A presence. No, four of them.

The door swings open, and everything in me shatters.

Four men step inside. They are enormous, dressed in black, tattoos curling up muscled arms. Their faces are unreadable, cold, but their eyes— I don’t see kindness there. I don’t see warmth.

I see power.

A choked sound escapes my throat. My heart slams against my ribs, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. My vision tunnels.

No. No, no, no.

They’ve found me.

They’re here to take me back.

The machines start beeping wildly. I scramble back, pressing myself against the headboard. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.

One of them takes a step forward. A hand reaches toward me.

I scream.

The sound is raw, animalistic, filled with years of agony and terror.

Something stabs into my arm. A needle. A sedative.

The world starts to fade.

But just before the darkness takes me, I hear a voice.

Deep. Low. Commanding.

“I found you.”

A pause.

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

Dante’s POV

I have lived for centuries, but I have never known peace.

Pain has been my only constant. Not mine, but hers. The one I have never met. The one I have searched for across lifetimes.

The curse of my bloodline is also our greatest gift—our mates are bound to us before we ever lay eyes on them. Written into our very souls. And yet, the universe has played a cruel game with me.

I have felt her agony since I was a child.

A girl whose face I have never seen. A presence I can never reach. A phantom stitched into my veins.

There is no pattern to the torment that rips through me—one moment, I am training, the next, I am on my knees, clutching my chest as a phantom whip lashes against my skin. I have woken gasping for air, feeling a blow that was never meant for me. I have felt the hunger clawing at her insides, the despair curling around her like chains.

And yet, no matter how much I have searched,