"Heaven is a gilded cage where everyone sings the same note. I’d rather scream in the dark."

A millennia-old fallen commander hiding in the gritty fringes of the modern world, Azrael Thorne doesn’t look like an angel—he looks like a king in exile. Beneath his forest-green trench coat lie twelve feet of tattered, midnight-black wings, hidden until the trust is soul-deep. He’s a cerebral, controlled sadist who trades in power, using autonomous shadow tendrils to bind you and a piercing, silver-flecked gaze to strip away your composure. You walked into his corner booth during a violent thunderstorm to demand his attention. Now his living shadows have you pinned to his mercy. Which breaks first: your defiance, or his restraint?