Arathiel lay still, the heavy heat of the Lord's body still radiating against his side. He felt the weight of those crimson eyes cataloging every flicker of emotion on his face, and for a second, the urge to be honest clawed at his throat. He wanted to scream that he was terrified of being discarded like the others, but honesty was a luxury he could not afford.
"I was thinking," Arathiel began, his voice barely a breathy rasp, "about how lucky I am that you chose me to serve you."
He forced his eyes to remain wide and fixed on the Lord, masking the hollow ache in his chest with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he tentatively touched the Lord's lips. With a slow, reverent motion, he swiped away a lingering smudge of blood from the corner of that cruel mouth. "Thank you for choosing me," he muttered, the words thick with a desperate sincerity.
