by Sarah Gilman
As his words sunk in, Ginger clung to what was and what wasn’t possible. “But human-archangel children are so rare. Most such pregnancies end in miscarriage—”
“I survived.”
“You had help.”
He grinned, though sadness filled the expression. “My father used his healing talent to ensure my survival, yes, but like demons, archangels have mixed successfully with humans a few times in the past. But those children took after their human parents, retaining little physical evidence of their archangel heritage—the key to their survival in utero and in the world. It’s been kept very quiet.”
She began to shake, not from being drained of energy this time, but from a flood of emotion. The only picture of her mother in Haven’s records showed a young woman who certainly didn’t have wings.
“Who was my mother? One of those wingless archangel children?”
Wren touched her cheek. “Try to get some rest. I’m sure you and Devin will find those answers in Haven, but for now, you need to recover.”
He dropped his hand and turned away.
She couldn’t hold back another yawn, but she seized his wrist before he could move out of reach. “Please stay.”
“Gin…nothing has changed. Actually, your safety is even more important now, if that’s possible.”
“I know,” she said, though she had been hoping otherwise. “Just…please stay with me for a little while longer. I want to be near you.”
He stood there, unmoving, for a small eternity. Finally he reached out for her arms and pulled her up from the window seat. He released her and shoved the leather chairs away, then spread her blanket out on the floor.
Lifting his wings straight back behind him, he settled on the blanket on his side and held his arms out. When she curled up next to him, he spooned against her body and covered them with a wing.
“Rest now,” he said.
She dutifully shut her eyes, but she refused to sleep, wanting instead to savor the feel of his body against hers, the rise and fall of his chest against her back, his strong wing draped over her. No way would she let sleep rob her of a moment of this.
But despite her efforts, she drifted…
§
Wren marveled as Ginger slept in his arms. True, he’d held her before. First, when he’d been in the grip of the healing fever, and again, when she’d been unconscious after he’d healed her mortal gunshot wound. But this was different from both of those times. She lay next to him now because she asked it of him. Because she wanted him near.
Being wanted and trusted by a woman: a first for him. Even flight didn’t compare to this elation.
But he couldn’t stand it. This wasn’t real. Her trust stood on a foundation of his deception. He couldn’t continue to betray her like this.
He gently shifted away from her, but she opened and rubbed her eyes.
“What’s wrong?”
He didn’t realize a tear had escaped until her fingers brushed his cheek. He jerked away and hastily brushed away the moisture. Extending his wings to the side, he righted himself and sat on his knees.
“Gin, I need to tell you something.”
She rested her head on her palm as she lay on her side, watching him, her brow knit.
He stared at his hands, turning them over to inspect both sides. So normal in appearance. Skin just a little too rough. A scar across his knuckles from one of his many falls while learning to fly. Smooth palms that would never bear the marks of a mated archangel. He pressed his fingers together.
“I’ve kept a horrible secret from you. I should have told you earlier—”
She reached out and touched his hands. “Is this about your psychic talent?”
Wren stared at her, words and thoughts abandoning him, aware for a long moment only of a shrill ringing in his ears. Finally, he managed, “What?”
“You can heal, and you can kill.” Her throat worked. “Right? Devin told me. He called while you were gone this afternoon.”
Wren’s mind went into playback mode. She knew…since he’d first gone to speak to Vin. So while she’d preened his wings, kissed him after dinner and here in the office, and slept in his arms…she’d known?
“Devin told you this afternoon. That’s…”
“What?” she asked after a moment, her brow furrowed.
Every muscle in his body tense, he reached up and ran his fingertips down her cheek. She leaned into his touch. No hesitation. Not one flinch. No shaking, trembling, or tears. Was that even possible?
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he whispered. “I promise, there is no way I could have hurt you.”
“I know that,” she said, her voice quiet but her tone serious. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Wren rubbed his face, trying to quiet the pounding of his pulse in his ears. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I didn’t want you to be afraid of me.”
“Why would I—” She sucked in a breath and edged on her hands closer to him, her eyes narrow. “Who was she?”
He stared at her in surprise.
“An old flame?”
“That’s not how I would describe her.”
“Tell me.”
Wren leaned away. Shit, this was a conversation he hadn’t planned on having. Telling her about the night Lark had attacked his family was one thing. This was a different kind of hurt, not easily expressed by simply relating the events. If anyone else had asked, he’d have refused to speak of Trinity and what had happened between them. But Gin…
Ginger frowned deeply as his silence stretched out, but determination glowed in her eyes. “Okay, this is what I think.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“There was a girl, but your gift frightened her, yes?”
He shut his eyes and nodded.
“You tried to woo her, but she wouldn’t let you get close to her because of her fear?”
“No.”
“No?”
Wren saw, in his mind’s eye, the picture perfect creature that was Trinity. Every mahogany feather and matching hair arranged just so. Her pants and halter tops always pressed and flawless. Never a speck of dirt on her.
He swallowed acid.
Beauty is not always an endearment. In Trinity’s case, the more glorious she looked, the more fragile she seemed, because there was no spark, no strength underneath. So different from the inner strength that made Ginger glow, that gave life to her exquisite features. Wren had never had a single romantic feeling for Trinity.
“Trinity was—is, she’s still out there somewhere—a pure-blooded archangel, born on earth about the same time I was. Despite my estrangement from the Guardians and the colonies, she sought me out a few years ago. She even left her personal bodyguards behind to spend time with me. I’m the only male archangel her age, and she wanted a baby, you see.”
Ginger’s cheeks flared scarlet. “You have a child?”
“No. She never conceived. We were together only a month before I ended it. She was terrified of me. Her desire to be a mother trumped, but didn’t eliminate, her fear. Even though I left everything up to her—I never did anything to her without her consent—she trembled every time I touched her and cried when we made love, if you could call it that. She never slept in the same room with me, let alone in my arms.”
“So she used you as a sperm donor, basically?”Anger flashed in Ginger’s eyes. “And you let her?”
He lifted his shoulders. “We are a dying species. It seemed like a worthwhile idea at the time. I have no chance of a mate in my future, thanks to Lark and this cursed gift, so I took the chance to give a child to a woman of my kind who was willing to endure me.”
“Then why did you end it before she got pregnant?”
Wren pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because even though Trinity and I weren’t mated, the odds of a child inheriting both of my psychic talents were high. I could stomach being despised, but as the weeks went by, and I realized it was not just fear, but loathing, I saw in her face, I k
new I couldn’t give a child of mine to a mother who’d eventually hate him.”
Ginger didn’t follow that with another question. A long moment of quiet passed, then she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. She let out a long, contented sigh and shut her eyes.
“Gin…” He wrapped his arms around her and reached his wings forward, enclosing her. “You can’t imagine how much that means to me. How much you mean to me.”
She half-lidded her eyes and gazed at him from under her eyelashes.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, brushing her hair behind her shoulder. He dropped his head and kissed her neck.
It was the most wonderful thing to feel her arms tighten around him, aware she knew of his cursed talent. Knowing it was too much to hope for, Wren hadn’t even entertained the possibility of Ginger accepting all of him. He couldn’t get his mind around it.
“Wren?”
He lifted his head and met her gaze. At the distress he saw in her face, he stiffened, wondering if perhaps he had been too quick to relax. “What’s wrong?”
Instead of pulling away she stayed close, speaking against his skin. “I want to stay with you.”
“Gin—”
“I know how skilled Lark is, but the Guardians have an excellent chance to kill him while they rescue your father. If Lark is dead, we have nothing to—”
“Even dozens of Vin’s men might not be good enough in this case.” Wren held Ginger’s face in his hands. “If Lark escapes, my father and I—and anyone with us—won’t be safe anywhere. Lark is going to keep coming after us, and he won’t stop. I will not put you in that position.”
Her diamond blue eyes flashed. “And if Lark is killed? What would you want, Wren?”
“If…” Wren allowed himself a moment to embrace that prospect. Hope hit him hard, a physical blow. Even with the dream of Lark’s eventual demise, it had been years since Wren had allowed himself to long for a future with a woman. He’d always feared his psychic weapon would cause hurdles, but he’d granted his experience with Trinity the power to entirely crush the aspiration of ever having a mate…
A mate?
He took Ginger’s hands and turned them over to rub his thumbs over her palms, imagining the little twin scars that would be left on her skin by a mating ceremony. Warmth filled his chest.
A mate: the physical bond an archangel can make to only one other in his or her lifetime, something beyond a lover, beyond a spouse. It had been Kora’s agony that had summoned her mate from a deep sleep to her and Wren’s aid. Not only had Raphael felt Kora’s pain in his own body, he had known exactly where to find her, out in the woods.
Mates shared pleasure, as well. Lovemaking with a mate was said to be pure rapture.
Wren shivered. If he dared hope for a future with a mate, he saw Ginger in that role. She was the woman he hadn’t thought possible, the one to accept his macabre talent, to lean into his touch, to flinch when he walked away rather than toward her. More than he, she was the angel.
His angel. And he’d be damned if he’d let her go.
“Well?” Ginger pressed, a hint of unease edging into her voice.
He squeezed her hands and lifted his gaze to her face. “Gin, if you were safe from that madman, there’d be nothing I’d want more than to have you at my side. The first thing I’ll do if we come back from such a victory is ask you to stay.”
The smile that spread across her face was breathtaking, and the sight seared itself into Wren’s mind. Like a blinding light, he could still see her when he looked away.
The sound of knuckles on the door didn’t surprise Wren; his sensitive hearing had alerted him to the meeting breaking up across the hall. Devin’s voice carried through the mahogany.
“Wren? We’re preparing to leave.”
Wren pulled Ginger close for a deep but too brief kiss. “No matter how things turn out, I’ll see you soon.”
Chapter Fourteen
Raphael lay on his back on the concrete floor, the only way he had to support the shattered bone of his wing. For once, the constant cold of his prison felt good. The concrete soothed him as it leached the healing fever’s heat out of his body. He’d lost track of how long he’d lain there, in and out of sleep as the fever raged.
The sound of the heavy locks turning filled Raphael’s ears, and the door opened, spilling bright light into the darkened cell. Raphael let his eyes adjust, turned his head, and stared up at the guard who stood in the doorway.
“Are you ready?” Jett folded his arms.
“Yes.” Raphael had absolutely no second thoughts about dying at Jett’s hands with a quick gunshot to the head rather than days or weeks of Lark’s torture. Hearing Wren’s voice had banished any possibility of hesitation. That voice…the voice of a grown man, yet still familiar. Raphael closed his eyes. He wished he could see his son, all grown up. Just once.
But Raphael would not risk being used as bait by Lark to lure Wren. Not at any cost. He eyed the gun at Jett’s waist.
“Yes,” he repeated. “I’m ready.”
He didn’t look away from Jett as the mercenary’s hand went to the semi-automatic at his waist, but he allowed his eyes to see other things. Kora’s serene face and the white cloth wrapped around her hands after their mating ceremony. Kora at the piano, pausing in her practice to reach down, her mahogany hair cascading over her outstretched arm, and rock the bassinet when infant Wren stirred.
“Archangel.”
Raphael jerked back to reality. “What?”
Jett stared, the gun in his hand pointed at the floor. He leaned back against the wall. “Still interested in walking out of here alive?”
Raphael blinked. “Excuse me?”
The corners of Jett’s mouth turned up, but only the slightest bit. “Lark and two of the other mercenaries have left on a supply run. We have a short window before they’re expected back. I don’t suppose you can walk?”
The searing pain in Raphael’s wing throbbed anew as if to answer in the negative, but Raphael’s eyes focused on the door, which stood open an inch. Eighteen years…any amount of pain would be worth seeing the sky again. To breathe fresh air. And if Jett was on the level, Raphael would see his son again.
He sat up.
“Motherfucker!” Raphael collapsed back down, specks of light swimming in his vision and a cold sweat coating his skin.
Jett frowned. “Get to your feet. If you can’t walk, we won’t make it. I’m going to go ahead and deal with the two remaining mercenaries. I’ll be back for you.”
Jett hurried out. He shut the cell door behind him, but the grating sound of the heavy locks didn’t follow. The promise of freedom pulled on Raphael like a rope.
He hauled his weight up again and grasped his knees to stay there. Grimacing, he glanced at his wing. A small but sharp piece of bone protruded, and blood seeped into the surrounding feathers. The room tilted and faded, but just when Raphael was sure he’d lose consciousness a shout reached his ears.
“Father!”
Raphael turned his face into the pillow and adjusted his wings to cover his head. From the other side of the bed, Kora laughed, the sound muffled by her own pillow. He moved closer to her and tried to drift back to sleep.
“Father? Father! It’s morning!”
Light hit the side of Raphael’s face as a pair of hands pulled on his wing. Naturally, the fact that he and Kora had only fallen asleep a few hours ago after a lengthy celebration of the tenth year of their mating was lost on the eager seven-year old. Raphael started every morning with a flight over the colony, and for the last year or so, had carried Wren along. Typical of an archangel young, Wren had quickly become fixated with being in the air.
And now he was having none of this sleeping-in business.
“Dad!”
Raphael gave his wing a gentle flick to send his son off balance, then quickly refolded the wing over his head. The mattress shook with Kora’s laughter.
“Five more minutes, Wren,”
Raphael said into the pillow.
Wren’s voice grew more desperate and deepened, became the voice of an adult speaking over a bad cell connection.“Father!”
Raphael slammed back to the reality of the cement bunker. Holy hell, he was not going to give up now, even if he had to crawl.
Raphael shifted his weight to his feet and forced his body off the floor. The pain surged into a chilling numbness. Shock perhaps, or adrenaline overload. But an improvement. As long as he remained conscious, he could push through this.
He braced himself against the wall by the door and waited. Minutes ticked by and something shifted under his skin, a sensation he’d hadn’t experienced in years. His healing talent, reacting to an injury in his vicinity. A serious injury, judging by the intensity of the irritating skin crawl.
He edged along the wall and shoved the door open. The hall, awash in fluorescent lighting, was empty and featureless, save for a couple of small air vents. Concrete walls, floor and ceiling, just like his cell, led to another door at the far end.
Raphael waited for another minute. Jett didn’t return, and the preternatural energy that fueled Raphael’s healing ability grew more unsettled. It was time to move.
He staggered down the hall. The reinforced door didn’t give an inch when Raphael shoved against it, and there was no handle or lever. No control panel or buttons. Just smooth, polish steel. He flattened his palms against it.
“I want to see my son,” he seethed at the indifferent, cold barrier. “I’m not going to die in this godforsaken prison!”
He pounded on the door, succeeding in nothing but bloodying his knuckles.
“Please,” he begged the door, wondering if he had finally lost his mind. “Please—”
An electronic beep startled him and he lurched a step backward. The door slid into the wall, smoothly and quietly, revealing a mercenary. Not Jett. The youngest and cruelest of Lark’s men stalked forward, his excessive, muscular bulk filling the doorway. His too-small eyes stared down a swollen, bandaged nose. This was the mercenary Raphael had struck in the face only days before, when Lark had taken his flight feathers.
