I Married a Mothman (Prime Mating Agency, #11)

by Regine Abel

“The Prism is like a prophet. According to the Promethean lore, Xarin is reborn once every century or so, right before a major cataclysm that occurs on a recurring cycle. He plays an important role in balancing the beacons upon which the very existence of this world and of its people rely. He’s also the only one able to cleanse some of the scorched lands that are struck by Thaudras—the cataclysm in question.”

“Ignorance, especially when influenced by religious beliefs, can drive even the kindest people to commit the most atrocious actions,”

“Like many primitive species, Prometheans believe that natural disasters are divine punishments. To them, the power surges in their beacons are a sign of the wrath of Kiaris, the Goddess of Light. To appease her, they sacrifice those considered as a stain among their people.”

He is what we call an Edal—an empath who can hear souls. The rest of us can feel emotions, but he goes beyond that. When I asked him to

describe it, Kayog said it sounds almost like a melody to him. Each person has a unique song that can only be matched by their soulmate.

As a Black Achromatic, I was immune to magical attacks. My wings absorbed all light wavelengths and dispelled the halo energy. As I couldn’t reflect light—and therefore colors—it also kept me from casting magic. The silver eyespots in my wings were the only thing that allowed me to perform a small amount of magic, but as silver wasn’t a color commonly found in the environment, that already weak ability was further stunted.

“See, Atlas, it appears the Prism approves of my choice,” Venus said in a soft voice. “He also thinks your color doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, Venus. Atlas is your soulmate. Even when I don’t try, I succeed,” he said, shaking his head with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “It’s something else being me.”

“Yes. And as you know, I’m never wrong,” he said while patting my cheek affectionately. “Be happy, my dear. You deserve it.”

By the Lights, there was something insanely sexy about watching my mate verbally slap that obnoxious male in the politest and most reasonable voice possible.

“I’m sorry, Venus,” I repeated, mortified beyond words. “I feel and want things that aren’t meant for me, that I shouldn’t covet. My mind knows better, but my body and my heart have a will of their own. You’re so different, so beautiful, and so kind. In all my years, no one else’s presence has felt as harmonious, appeasing, and right as yours. Being near you makes me happy.”