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    Summary

    “This is clearly what makes you an angel,” she observes, voice low. It’s almost below a murmur, but they’re so close that Lilith’s voice is the only sound for miles. “Your wings. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”

    A golden blush deepens and begins to travel down his neck. If the First Woman sees it, she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Even that of the birds?” He asks. Is he that desperate for praise? Shouldn’t angels be the ones praising all that is good? This foreign practice is so wonderful that he’s afraid of when it will cease.

    Lilith smiles at him and squeezes the hand wrapped in his. “The birds cannot compare to you,” she says, so genuine it’s saccharine to the taste. “They’re small. Inconsequential. You, my Morningstar, are an enigma.

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    Lucilith Week 2024 - All Entries

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