by Nalini Singh
It terrified her, what he was offering. Not just his wings . . . but the molten emotion he made no effort to hide. It had nothing to do with pity. "Galen."
Bending his head, he spoke so close, it was almost a kiss, his lips but a breath from her own. "Hold on tight." And then he stepped backward off the ledge of his aerie.
She screamed as he dropped off, and it was half delight, half shocked surprise. "I didn't mean 'yes'!" Her arms locked around his neck.
Pretending deafness, he dipped and spiraled down the massive walls of the same gorge that had sent terror into her veins earlier that day. Not now. Not in Galen's unbreakable grip. A dizzying thrill ran through her blood and she found herself laughing again. He was like one of her charges, ignoring her in the hope she'd forget the reproof she'd meant to give. And in this, he was probably right--because Galen could fly.
After winging down until they were sweeping just above the roar of the river below, he skimmed along the water. The spray kissed her sandaled feet, her face, and she rubbed that face against his neck in spontaneous affection. Dipping his head, he gave her a berserker's grin before flying up and up and up until they were high in the insubstantial cotton of the clouds, the sparkling mineral-flecked buildings of the Refuge hidden behind a mountain range that was an impenetrable natural barrier to those without wings, the land below a wild tapestry she'd seen for the last time so very long ago, when she had been a child . . . and her father had taken her up into the sky.
"Thank you, Father."
"You're my child, Jessamy. I'd do anything to hear you laugh, see that beautiful smile."
Her father loved her. As did her mother. But there had always been such sadness behind their happy expressions when they returned to the earth, until Jessamy could no longer bear it. So she'd grounded herself. Her decision had been met with sorrow, but that had passed. Sometimes now, her parents were able to forget her disability, and treat her simply as their daughter, cherished and with achievements that made them glow with pride.
A sheet of brilliant light, scattering the bleak memories like jeweled pebbles.
She looked down to see a mirror-perfect lake reflecting the setting sun in all its shattering glory, the water a cauldron of fire, the sky a lick of flame.
Lips brushing her ear, a warm breath. "Do you want to land?"
She shook her head, never wanting to touch the earth again. Dipping down to surf a lazy wind, Galen swept them out farther, until she was traveling over areas she'd never seen with her own eyes, only heard about from others. Her soul soaked up the sights, the sensations--the air crisp against her cheeks, the wind playful--parched ground finally having its thirst assuaged. The beauty and grandeur of it stole her breath, and still Galen flew, showing her wonder after wonder, his wings tireless.
There was no light in the sky, the stars glittering like faceted gemstones overhead when she sighed, so very full of joy that another drop would make her burst. "Yes. We can go home now." Golden lamplight glowed in a bare few windows as Galen winged them back to the aerie, the Refuge quiet, his heartbeat steady.
Landing, he set her on her feet. She grabbed at him as her legs wobbled, the feel of his big body no longer so strange and intimidating--though it would've been a lie of the highest order to say he didn't affect her. There wasn't a single part of her own body that wasn't aware of his every breath, his every move. "Thank you," she whispered, hands still splayed on a male chest she wanted to pet and stroke.
He shook his head, refusing her gratitude. "I want payment."
It was the last thing she'd expected to hear. "What?" His skin, it was so hot, she wanted to rub up against him like a cat.
"For the flight," he said, tugging her closer with his hands on her own. "I want payment."
Hard, he was built so hard and strong. "If I refuse?" It was becoming difficult to talk, to breathe.
A slow smile that softened the brutal masculine lines of his face. "Don't refuse, Jessamy."
The coaxing murmur wrapped her in unbreakable bonds, the vibration of his words a rumble against her palms. Startled, she went to pull away hands that had turned caressing over the tensile strength of him, but he wouldn't let her go. "A kiss," he said in a low, deep voice that felt like the most decadent silk over her skin. A little rough . . . but oh so exquisite. "Just one."
Enthralled as she was by his voice, it took a moment for his words to penetrate. Shock, pain, anger, it all roared to the surface. "I don't need your pity." She wrenched at her hands.
He didn't budge.
"Release me."
"It's an insult you've given me, Jessamy." His tone was one she'd never before heard from him. "But since I caused you hurt earlier, I will declare us even." With that, he let her go and entered the aerie, waiting only until she was inside to light a lamp, and pull the heavy wooden door shut.
Standing there watching him move around the room with muscular grace, lighting other lanterns until the aerie glowed with warmth, gilding Galen's skin and hair, she knew that, driven by a self-protective instinct that had become a second skin, she'd behaved badly. Galen meant what he said and said what he meant. She had no right to judge him against the example set by weaker, worthless men.
Hand clenching on the handle of her bag, she tried to think of how to make amends, couldn't quite find the words, settled for seeing if he was too angry to speak to her. "You don't have many things." The stool off to her left, a small table, a thick rug with comfortable-looking cushions in one corner of the polished stone of the floor.
"I need little," he said, no coolness in his tone. "But there is a bed through there." He lit more lamps as he nodded to the back of the aerie. Walking closer, she saw the "bedroom" was another corner of the single room, but one with a heavy curtain that could be pulled across for privacy. The bed was a large one, as befit someone of Galen's size.
"I'm taking your bed," she said, a strange discomfort in her blood that had nothing to do with stealing his rest.
He shrugged. "I have no plans to sleep." Leaving her beside the bed, he walked back to the living area, and slid off his sword and harness. The movement of the leather across his sun-kissed skin caught her eye, held it, the shift of muscle beneath his--
Coloring when he looked up and caught her staring, she pulled the curtain shut and, kicking off her sandals, sat down on the bed. She couldn't recall ever reacting in such a way to a man, until she didn't know who she was anymore, this woman whose mind was overwhelmed with naked emotion, whose blood ran so hot, whose hands still bore the imprint of a firm male chest.
Perhaps she might have felt such need as a young girl, but she didn't think so. Back then, she'd still been walking with her head downbent, angry and torn by an envy that had made her feel a hateful creature.
Her chest ached.
She wished she could go back to that lonely, self-conscious girl and tell her it would be all right, that she'd build a life for herself that would give her contentment. Her hand fisted. No, perhaps she didn't wish to go back--what girl would want to hear of "contentment" when she dreamed of searing joy and shimmering passion?
That yearning hadn't died so much as been crushed under the weight of truth. Oh, she'd realized as she'd grown older that she could find a lover if she so chose, someone who would teach her the secrets that flirted in the eyes and on the lips of other women, but she'd also understood that any such relationship--even if there was true desire involved--would be a temporary one. It would end the instant her lover understood that she was bound to the Refuge.
Unlike him, she could never fly beyond the mountains, never live in the outside world--because the angels could not be seen as weak. Mortals had an awe of the angelic race that kept them from attempting insurrection that could only ever end in the deaths of thousands. An angel so imperfect . . . it would shake the foundations of that awe, lead to bloodshed as mortals thought to see in her a truth about the angelic race that didn't exist. Jessamy was one of a kind.
Better, she'd long ago decide
d, far better that she assuage her painful hunger to see the world through the pages of books, than to incite mortals into an act that would stain the ground darkest red. As for intimacy . . . Her hand clenched on the sheets again, on the bed of an angel unlike any other, one who stirred things in her that could not be allowed to be stirred, not if she was to survive the millennia to come.
Because her beautiful barbarian, too, would one day fly away, leaving her behind. And still she rose, pushed the curtain aside, and padded on bare feet to the living area . . . where Galen, dressed in nothing but those pants of some tough brown material, his wings held tight to his back, was lying parallel to the floor with his palms flat on the ground, his entire body a straight line. As she watched, he pushed up, veins standing up on his arms as his muscles strained, went down, repeated.
"You're already strong," she said, her eyes lingering on the bunch and release of an unashamedly powerful body that made butterflies flitter in her stomach. "Why do this?"
"A warrior who considers himself the best," he said, never pausing in his actions, "is a fool who'll soon be dead."
A blunt answer from a blunt kind of a man. He wasn't like the scholars she spent the majority of her time with, wasn't even like the lethal archangels. Raphael, with his power honed to a cruel edge, was as different from this man as she was from the angel Michaela--the scheming, intelligent ruler of a small territory whose strength had grown so acute, Jessamy was certain the stunning immortal was on the verge of becoming Cadre.
"You should rest," he said when she didn't reply.
She scowled. "I'm older than you are, Galen." No matter if she appeared breakable, she could go for even longer periods without sleep. "Perhaps you're the one who should rest after this exertion."
A hitch in the smooth rhythm of muscle and tendon, a small pause as he caught her gaze with eyes of some rare, precious gemstone that seemed to see into her soul. "Are you inviting me to bed, Jessamy?"
5
"No." It came out a croak, and she was so frustrated with herself for letting him rattle her that she said, "I am not a carnal creature," her words made a lie by the slumberous heat that lingered in her even now.
Pushing up and to his feet in a smooth motion that belied the bulk of his body, Galen shoved back his hair. Then he took a step forward. Another. And another. Until she thought he'd back her against a wall . . . but he stopped with a single breath between them, the dark, hotly potent scent of him overwhelming her senses. "Are you sure?" Reaching out, he ran his hand over the arch of her right wing, the twisted reality of the left hidden behind the fall of her hair.
"Even in Titus's court," she said, fighting the excruciating pleasure that threatened to ripple over her skin, "that would've been an unacceptable act." It was a touch permitted only to a lover.
Hands at his sides once more, he raised an eyebrow. "If you aren't a carnal creature"--a challenge--"it means nothing."
"The sensitivity of that region springs not only from base urges." It scared her, how much he made her need, how effortlessly he shattered defenses built up over the endless eon of her existence. He had no comprehension of what he was asking.
Two thousand six hundred years she'd been alone and trapped in the Refuge. She'd had to find a way to survive, to become more than a ghost who lingered on the edges of other people's lives. She'd made herself--into someone who was respected by adults and loved by the children she taught. It wasn't a glorious life, but it was a life far better than the painful existence of her youth.
To risk the small happiness she'd found by jumping into the unknown, trusting that this warrior, this stranger who wasn't a stranger, would catch her? It was a terrible thing to ask . . . but even as she thought it, she knew she might well be willing to pay the price for the chance to know Galen body and soul. Because this man, he didn't simply look at her. He saw her.
"And yet," he said, responding to her argument when she'd almost forgotten what she'd said, "it's a caress shared between lovers alone." With that, he stalked over to take a seat on the stool beside which he'd left his sword and, picking up the weapon, began to clean it with a soft cloth.
She wanted to shake him, this big boulder of a man who thought he was right in everything. "Do you think you've won?" Do you know what you're doing to me, understand the fractures you're creating?
Smooth, slow strokes on the gleaming metal. "I think we need to find out what you know that is so important, someone would seek your life for it."
The chill she'd almost managed to overcome invaded her bones again. Rubbing at her arms, bared by the design of her simple gown, she walked into the tiny kitchen area and started to open the cupboards. Whether Galen cooked or not, one of the angels in charge of keeping the warrior quarters supplied would have stocked it with the essentials. She found flour, honey, butter in a cooling jar. A little more hunting and she had dried fruits, and eggs. "Do you have wood for the oven?"
Galen got up in answer, and walking to a corner of the aerie opposite from where she stood, reached into a basket to bring out two small logs, which he placed in the oven. A bit of tinder, and the fire was lit, the door closed. Designed for the aeries, the smoke from the stove would vent into the gorge, while the heat would remain inside. Angels didn't feel the cold as mortals did, but warmth was always welcome in the mountains.
Returning to his sword, Galen continued to clean the already pristine blade, but she could feel him watching her, the sensation an almost physical touch. "What are you making?" The faintest hint of some gentler emotion.
Longing?
She went to dismiss it, hesitated. He'd been raised in a warrior court--had that small boy ever been made a treat, or had he been considered a warrior-in-training from the cradle, taught only discipline and war? "A cake with dried fruits," she said, shaking off the idea, because his mother had surely lavished him with affection--if she knew one thing, it was that angels adored their babes. Jessamy might not be able to live with Rhoswen's guilt, but she'd never doubted her mother's love.
"It would be better if the fruit had soaked overnight," she continued, heart settling, "but I don't want to wait." Picking up the kettle on top of the oven, she poured some of the already hot water on the dried apricots, berries, and slices of orange. "And I know many things, Galen," she said, forcing herself to face the nightmare because it wasn't going to disappear. "I'm the keeper of our histories." A million fragments of time, more, they existed inside her mind.
Rising to place his sword on a bracket on the wall, Galen began to stretch slowly in the center of the room while they talked. She realized she'd interrupted him earlier, was glad, for it meant she could watch him now. No matter what she'd argued, what she knew to be the safe choice, she was a woman who ached for something that might well break her forever . . . and he was a beautiful man.
"But," he said, twisting in a move that had his abdomen clenching tight, the filaments of white-gold in his wings glittering in the lamplight, "we only need to pay attention to that which could influence something important at the present time."
Concentrate, Jessamy. "There are always a thousand small politics happening among the powerful." No one who wasn't immersed in that world could comprehend the labyrinthine depths of some of what went on. Which made her think-- "If you are to be Raphael's weapons-master, you must know all this." Success would take him from her, from the Refuge, but she would never stand in the way of this magnificent creature.
"Dmitri suggested I come to you."
"He was right," she said, wondering if Galen had the personality to absorb what she had to say. She didn't make the mistake of thinking him stupid. No, she'd spoken to several knowledgeable people from Titus's territory in the hours after she'd first felt the impact of those eyes that reminded her of an unusual gem called heliodor, curious in a way she hadn't then been ready to accept.
A little subtle direction and she'd learned that Galen wasn't considered only a master tactician, but a man capable of building loyalty and leading armies
onto enemy soil--and coming out the winner. Titus was furious to have lost him, though Orios was not--a true compliment from a weapons-master considered the best in the Cadre.
However, Galen's mind, from what she'd learned of him, was a place of clean-cut lines, of good and bad, shades of gray few and far in between. He would bleed for those he gave his loyalty, and once given, that loyalty would be enduring.
The woman he took as his own would never, ever have to fear betrayal.
Consciously relaxing her grip on the wooden spoon she was using to stir the mixture, she took a deep breath, but he spoke before she could. "We don't need to focus on the small intrigues." He spread his wings, folded them back in neatly. "Putting aside any personal connections you have with other angels, your position itself is considered sacrosanct, given the impact your loss would have on the children--enemies would band together to avenge any harm done to you. To chance such reprisal, the stakes must be high."
She halted in the process of pouring the mixture inside a small pot that was the only thing she'd found to bake in. "You're right." She had so much knowledge inside of her, she sometimes got lost within it. "Alexander's planned aggression against Raphael is unquestionably the most important thing happening at present."
"Yet it is no secret," Galen said, his movements displaying a wild grace she wouldn't have believed possible of such a big man. "So if your knowledge is connected to Alexander, it must relate to a hidden aspect."
"If so, Alexander himself can't have known of the planned assault," she said, certain beyond any doubt. "He'd consider it an insult to his pride to corner me in my home in such a brutal fashion." Had Alexander wanted her dead or incapacitated, one of his assassins would have quietly, efficiently taken care of it--she'd never have felt an instant's fear.
Galen's nod was firm. "Agreed. Who else?"
"I'll think on it." The blast of heat from the oven seared her skin when she opened it to place the pot inside, but it was the quiet warmth inside her that was the more dangerous--because this, being with Galen, talking with him as if they had spent many a night doing the same, it was the kind of emotional intimacy she craved. "Alexander surprises me with his intransigence about Raphael." To be an archangel was to be Cadre. It was as simple and as immutable as that. "He has never before been unreasonable to this degree."
