by Nalini Singh
Her dry comment just made his grin deepen . . . and her stomach drop. Because oh, he was unrepentant and bright and he loved. That was one of the most attractive things about Titus. He might mutter about his sisters and mother, but that he loved them was a candle flame in his heart she could almost see.
“My father was so spent by his time with my mother that he has been Sleeping since I was seven hundred years old.” A chuckle. “Before he went to Sleep, he told me she’d worn him out and it was glorious. Now he must recover.”
Her lips twitched, he was being so consciously wicked.
Eyes sparkling at her, he leaned forward. “She stayed with him some seventy-five years. She fell with child five decades into it.”
Shadows in her heart, memories of another little boy with parents who hadn’t been bound throughout his childhood. “Did you grow up with your mother?”
“My mother, my father, my sisters, their loves, the entire damn lot of them.” He groaned. “My father bought a home right next to my mother, and so we were a family even after they were no longer lovers.” More love in his voice, open and proud. “He’s a warrior, too, and between them, they taught me how to wield a sword before I could fly.”
The shadows burned away under the searing warmth of his voice. “Surely, with such a mother, more of your siblings must be warriors.”
“Our mother always told us to be true to our nature, to be honest in the path we chose to walk.” Again, such love and respect in every word. “Zuri and Nala are squadron commanders in Alexander’s army. You know of Charo. Phenie is a musician.”
“Oh!” She gasped. “Phenie? Your sister is Phenie?” One of the most celebrated harpists in all of angelkind. “Goodness, Titus, talent runs strong and fierce in your family.”
“Do you know how much harp music I had to listen to growing up?” His groan vibrated in her bones. “Every time she babysat me, it was harp, harp, harp. Phenie says she was attempting to soothe the feral beast that was her little brother, constantly jumping on the furniture and flying from the chandeliers, and diving off balconies.”
Laughter spilled from her as he reached for the tankard of ale at his elbow and, head tilted slightly back, drank it down in long, hard swallows.
His throat moved, the tendons strong against his skin.
Toes curling and stomach tight, she picked up her own tankard and took a drink. It was potent, burning fire into her guts. But she liked that, liked that it cleared her mind and brought her back to her senses. Until by the time Titus put his tankard down and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, she had herself under control.
Yet her voice came out husky when she said, “I think I would very much like to meet your sisters.”
Titus knew all four would love her. Not the distant and admired Hummingbird, but Sharine, as she was now. Brilliant with life and energy and with a subtle but undeniable sensuality of which she seemed unaware, but he’d very definitely noticed. The way she ran her fingers over different-textured surfaces from velvet to wood, the way she drew in scents, her eyes fluttering half-shut as she lost herself to the sensation, and the way she sometimes watched him as if she’d like to take a bite out of him.
Titus wasn’t unwilling in the least. He’d like her artist’s fingers to trace his body and learn his textures, grew hard at the thought of her drawing in then luxuriating in the scent of him, and as for the bite? He’d cup her lower curves and lift her up so she could take that bite directly from his mouth.
The woman was an inferno in a bottle.
No one looking at her would ever guess that she was millennia older than Titus.
His gut clenched again, his shoulders locking. He’d forgotten the age difference as they ate together, only now recalling the long life she’d lived. Far longer than his own. Such things didn’t matter among angels after a few millennia of existence, but for all intents and purposes, Sharine was an Ancient.
A beloved and revered Ancient.
Who’d made him itch to stroke the slope of her back as she passed him in the doorway, and whose laughter rippled over him like stroking hands. His cock had reacted to that same laughter, and to the light in her eyes as she listened to his tales of family with open interest.
She . . . compelled him.
Titus tensed. He was a man with strong carnal appetites, but he had those appetites under strict control. While he loved his mother, he’d seen her lead men around by the cock since he was a child—Titus had no desire to become akin to those lustbound men. No woman with whom he’d ever dallied had come close to wielding such control over him.
Picking up a grape from the platter on the table, Sharine parted her lips to put it inside, and his entire body hummed with need. He was half of a mind to sweep his arm out to smash all the food to the floor, then lift her up and sit her down on the table so he could feast on her instead.
Teeth gritted, he pushed back his chair and stood. “I must return to the patrol. It’s possible we may be able to spot and eliminate entire burrows of reborn while they’re resting.”
Sharine shot him a penetrating look. “Have you heard from your scientists about the reborn angel?”
“Nothing conclusive yet.” Stretching out his wings, he said, “If you don’t wish to work on your art, you’re welcome to use my library.” He was well aware he was lighting the wick of her temper, and yet, despite the danger she presented to him, he couldn’t stop. Crossing swords with Sharine was far too tempting.
Dagger eyes, exactly as he’d planned. “Is it safe to visit Charisemnon’s court?”
Snapping back his wings, he stared at his most uncooperative guest. “Why would you wish to go there?” He’d assumed she’d want to go out with a squadron—and they could use her abilities in the field.
“Not now—in the light hours,” she clarified. “I want to hunt through Charisemnon’s court for anything that might’ve been missed—notes about his experiments, other information.”
On her feet, she put one hand on the back of her chair. “You and your people went in as warriors, to clear enemy territory of dangers. You weren’t looking for notes or information on an angelic disease—and I’m not unskilled at hunting for information.”
Everything inside him rebelled at sending her to that place.
Seeking time to think, he turned to where he’d left his breastplate and other armor. He pulled it on today, complete with the shoulder, wrist, and back guards.
His fighters were tired, his people equally so. Sometimes, a symbol mattered. Sliding his swords into crisscrossing sheaths on his back, he came to a decision.
“If you’re looking for information on the disease,” he said, “it’ll most likely be at his border stronghold—he holed up there for some time prior to the war.” His mouth twisted. “I thought he was being a good ally, readying himself for the battle we all knew would come.”
“Yes, he would’ve kept his notes close by.” She searched Titus’s face. “That you didn’t immediately assume dishonor says much about you, Titus.”
Waving aside her words, he said, “We don’t know what ugliness pollutes the air of Charisemnon’s border stronghold.”
“If it’s enough to kill an angel of my age,” she said with equanimity, “then the world is indeed in trouble and it’d be better if we knew now.”
Titus didn’t want to agree with her, but she was right. He gave a curt nod.
* * *
* * *
But when dawn broke after a night of brutal work against shrieking, vicious reborn, he said, “If you wait until I’ve finished with the stragglers, I’ll accompany you.”
Sweaty and dirty and tired above the field of battle, a small woman with a giant spirit, she compressed her lips. “Will I cause a security problem by going as soon as I clean up? Do you need me in the field in the hours to come?”
He could lie to her and she wo
uldn’t know any different, but Titus was no liar. “No, I’m sending most of the squadrons and ground teams back home to rest and recharge.”
“What of Charisemnon’s court?” she asked. “I don’t wish to cut into your people’s precious rest time by needing to take a security detail.”
Again, he didn’t lie. “The stronghold is safe, with a permanent guard squadron.” He’d always intended to more fully investigate his enemy’s base. “It is, however, apt to be disgusting. We hauled away the bodies and blasted water over the main floors, but had no time for a deeper clean.”
“I’m not afraid of a little mess.”
No, she wasn’t, he thought, recalling how she’d helped pile the reborn carcasses for the bonfire. “I’ll assign you a fighter from the guard squadron on the off-chance we missed anything.”
Titus’s people had swept the stronghold top to bottom, but there was no point in taking chances . . . especially with Sharine, this angel who was causing a reaction in him for which he very much wasn’t ready. “I wouldn’t have angelkind after my head because I didn’t take care of the Hummingbird while she was in my keeping.”
“I’m not a relic to be hidden away.” Streaks of color on her cheeks that made her glow. “Neither do I belong to anyone but myself. I am not in anyone’s keeping.” Fire in her eyes, oh such brilliant fire.
It scalded him. And it made him hunger to burn himself in it.
He wanted to grip her chin, initiate the beginnings of a kiss. She’d probably stab him with her blade for daring. Because this woman, she wasn’t angelkind’s fragile treasure. She was Sharine, who’d bickered with him as they flew, and who’d offered him seconds of the dishes she’d noticed he liked best. A woman who was even now hovering toe-to-toe with him, her head tilted back to meet his gaze as he looked down.
He didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember her moving, but heat steamed the air between them. It was madness, but still he dipped his head and took her lips in a kiss that devoured. His hand was cupping the silken skin of her cheek before he knew it, and he well felt the shock of her own hand gripping his biceps; her nails bit into his flesh in a warning that she wasn’t happy.
But she didn’t end the kiss even when he hauled her closer and stroked one hand down to cup the lower curves of her body, his other arm locked around her upper back and his rigid cock pushing into her stomach. His head was smoke, filled with intoxication, his breathing jagged. And he craved. More and more and still more.
33
When she tore away her mouth and put air between them, they stared at one another, their chests heaving.
“No,” she said very firmly.
Mind hazed in a way it hadn’t been since he was a youth just discovering women, Titus didn’t react. Then the word finally penetrated and he took an automatic “step” back in the air; unlike some angels who burned with power, he didn’t believe that it was his right to take any woman he wanted.
He’d been raised by five very strong women, all of whom he respected to the core and all of whom would come after him with unsheathed blades if he disrespected any other woman in such a way. His mother would wake from her Sleep out of sheer disgust.
No, Titus didn’t force women. Ever.
However, there was no rule against making sure he had it right. “No for today?” he asked, because if so, she was right in stopping this—it wasn’t the time or place. He’d probably already shocked half his troops into a coma by manhandling her with such familiarity. “Or no forever?” It made his stomach tighten to ask the latter and the raw need of it terrified him, and yet he asked.
She’d dug her way under his skin, a burr he couldn’t dislodge . . . and didn’t want to reject. Surely, if he believed in such things, he’d say she’d done sorcery on him. But he didn’t believe in such things, and so he knew that this was something altogether different: a combustion between two opposing forces who’d somehow proven to be passionately compatible.
Her breathing, he was gratified to see, remained as unsteady as his when she said, “No for today.” Even as his lips began to curve, she brushed dust off her tunic and pants. “I have no desire to tie myself to any man—and you wish to remain free of entanglements also, yes?”
He blinked, disconcerted in a way that made no sense. “Yes,” he said, because of course it was so. “I’m not looking for a consort, but for a lover.”
“Then we’ll speak further when the time is not so inopportune.” Calm words, but her breathing remained uneven.
Titus knew she was right. But he took a moment to cross to her and raise his palm to her cheek—telegraphing his intent so she could pull back if she wished.
She didn’t.
Cradling the softness of skin he wanted to kiss inch by inch, he looked into eyes enigmatic and old and young at once and said, “It will be a fire between us, Shari.” Not a gentle one, either. “I wait to be burned.”
She reached up with the confidence of a woman who knew herself and gripped the arch of his wing, stroking down firmly. Erotic pleasure rocked his entire body, his blood molten. “Then we burn,” she whispered and dropped her hand. “Stay safe from the darkness, Titus. We have unfinished business, you and I.”
Her touch was a brand on his feathers and he half expected to see the marks of her possession when she broke contact, streaks of glittering champagne that laid claim to an archangel. “Your escort is on her way from Charisemnon’s stronghold.” Then, though worry for her gnawed in his gut, he left without further words.
* * *
* * *
Sharine watched Titus’s powerful body cut through the dawn sky, her heartbeat thunder and her skin hot. The gold of his armor turned him into a piece of the sun, the embodiment of archangelic strength. She felt a hushed quiet fall around her as his people looked on, drawn by that golden fire.
All the while, she had to fight the urge to press her fingers to her throbbing mouth. Never had she shared such a kiss. The embers smoldering inside her had burst into flame the instant his mouth touched her own, wrapping them both in wings of fire.
She’d wanted to run her hands over his muscled flesh, press her lips to the heated silk of his body, explore him with a carnal physicality that felt natural, right. As if there was nothing she could demand that he wouldn’t give . . . and nothing she wouldn’t give to assuage his hunger in turn.
Making herself turn away from the force of nature that was the Archangel of Africa, she flew back to the citadel at the highest speed she could manage. She’d just eaten a quick meal after bathing as rapidly and dressing in clean clothes when she heard the susurration of wings on her balcony.
Exiting her room, she found a slender female warrior standing in wait, her hair a deep black halo around her head, her wings a cool peach shade intermingled with threads of russet, and her skin the gold-flushed brown of a pigment Sharine had hand-mixed for her current work in progress.
The warrior’s eyes were the same brown, and acutely sharp. Lush lips provided a soft counterpoint. She was extraordinarily beautiful.
“Lady.” A deep bow. “I am Kiama. The sire has appointed me to escort you to the Northern border stronghold.”
“I thank you,” Sharine said, reaching for Titus’s mind.
When he indicated he heard her, she said, Does Kiama have the seniority to know for what I search?
She commands the border garrison, and has my full confidence and trust. His tone was resonant but distant, his attention clearly elsewhere. She withdrew at once, loath to distract him if he was dealing with one of the reborn.
Returning her attention to the young woman—though youth was a relative term when you were as old as Sharine—she said, “I go to Charisemnon’s court to search his laboratories and anywhere else he might’ve hidden information. We have evidence that he was working on an infection that could fatally injure angels.”
Kiama’s pupils flar
ed, a burst of night against the intense and lovely brown. “I understand. Do we fly now?”
“Yes. Will we need supplies?”
“My squadron is stationed at the stronghold garrison—it’s fully stocked.”
With that, the two of them took off into the sky.
The journey wasn’t long. Given their enduring enmity, the two archangels appeared to have built their most heavily fortified fortresses across the border from each other—you couldn’t see one from the other, and neither was on the border itself, but it was a swift journey for winged beings.
As a result—and despite her long night—Sharine was in no way on the edge of exhaustion when they landed in the courtyard of Charisemnon’s former stronghold. Unlike with Titus’s citadel, this fortress, while sprawling, had no city around it. It sat in magnificent isolation in the green of the landscape.
Nature had begun its slow creep across the stone structure even in the short time since it had been abandoned. Vines spread across the roof and hung down from the eaves, and she could see that a bird had made its nest in the alcove formed by a turret window. Give it a little more time and this symbol of immortal power would be absorbed back into the landscape as if it had never existed.
Dried leaves crunched underfoot as they crossed the courtyard, and she spotted the slinking bodies of cats prowling about. From their sleek healthiness, either they were being fed—or they were making a feast of the vermin that soon infested any abandoned place.
Kiama had already arranged for one of her people to come in behind them and stand guard outside in the courtyard, just in case they needed quick assistance. “Is this a permanent post for you?” Sharine asked her, curious why Titus would sideline a warrior with such watchful eyes.
Yes, she had a faint limp, and it was obvious she’d lost weight recently, but that meant nothing to a trained fighter. Limp or not, Kiama still moved with deadly grace, and was no doubt a dervish in battle.
“No, we do one-week stretches. My squadron will then go back to fight alongside the sire while another squadron takes the chance to rest. Truly, Lady Sharine, I would’ve defied the sire himself had he tried to bury me at this post.” She indicated her leg. “As it is, a week will be just enough to recover from my injury—one of the reborn almost took off my leg.”
