The journey home from the Celestial City was silent, thick with the weight of everything that had transpired. The council had made its ruling. Seraphim Simikiel had spoken. And now, Elijah Silvius of Siracusa—once a high-ranking Archangel—was nothing more than Anastasia Goodwin's guardian, bound to her and her bloodline for eternity. If he ever broke that oath, he would turn to ash.
Anastasia stole glances at him every now and then, but his face was unreadable. A mask of stone. No anger. No sorrow. No resistance. Just… nothing. He had been stripped of his rank, shackled to a mortal, and yet he didn't even flinch.
Dominion Zadkiel hadn't spoken in his defence, but there had been a flicker—just a flicker—of something like empathy in his gaze. That alone told Anastasia everything. Elijah's fate was sealed. He would never be free.
Bastian Webber trailed behind the family like a lost puppy, unsure of where he fit in this new reality. He was used to structure, to duty, to war. But now? Now he was here. In a house that wasn't his, with people who didn't fully understand him, and an existence he hadn't quite come to terms with.
When they arrived, Anastasia hesitated at the threshold before finally leading Elijah inside. She should talk to him, shouldn't she? But what could she say? 'Sorry you got condemned to eternal servitude?' Somehow, that didn't seem right.
Instead, she opted for something simpler. She showed him to the guest bedroom, directly across from hers, pointing out the essentials.
Still, he said nothing. Barely even looked at her. Until—
"Will you be leaving the house today?" His voice was eerily calm, detached, as if he were asking something as mundane as the weather.
"No," she answered, about to step away, but then—
"For what it's worth, I am truly sorry."
She froze. His back was still to her, his gaze fixed on the window. But then, ever so slightly, he turned his head.
"Don't be. You saved my life."
Her breath hitched. "S-saved your life?"
"Yes." He turned fully now, his expression unreadable, but there was something—something tender—in the way he regarded her. "You tried to take my place. You insisted on my freedom. No one has ever done that for me. Not in my entire existence."
Anastasia swallowed hard. "But you were deranked. Commissioned to watch over me and my family forever. I never meant for that to happen."
Elijah studied her for a long moment before, for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled. And not the polite, detached kind. A real, warm, genuine smile.
"There are worse fates than watching over you."
She blinked. "But—"
"It's not as bad as you think," he continued. "Centuries ago, I spent many years of training, battling creatures of pure nightmare, fighting in a never-ending war inside that training dome that became my prison. That wasn't a purpose. That was a sentence. Protecting you? That's a purpose I can accept."
She didn't know what to say to that, so she settled on the question that had been eating away at her since all this began. "What about your purpose in wanting my child?"
Elijah exhaled, his expression shifting into something thoughtful. "I knew Gabriel had some sort of plan. I wanted to disrupt it, to draw him out, to—" He stopped, a slow chuckle escaping his lips. "Turns out he's much harder to get rid of than I anticipated."
For the first time, Anastasia saw him differently—not as an enemy, not as a threat, but as someone who suffered heartbreak, someone who had been trapped, manipulated, and left with no choices. And before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight embrace.
He stiffened. Completely caught off guard. His arms hovered awkwardly for a second before he slowly, hesitantly, placed his hands on her back. And then he held her, warmth seeping into his touch, a silent acceptance of whatever this moment was.
He pulled away first, clearing his throat. "Get some rest. We all need it."
She nodded and turned toward her room, exhaustion finally creeping in. But the second she pushed the door open, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Someone was already there, sitting on the edge of her bed, hands clasped together, staring at the floor as if he had been waiting for her.
"Bastian?"