Two great featherless wings peeled open from the cambion’s back. So enormous even Mikhail drew in a breath at their reveal. Severn’s sight blurred. He gritted his teeth, making his jaw ache, and pushed back the great swell of grief, grateful Mikhail couldn’t sense or smell emotion. Because those were Severn’s wings, at least a damn near-perfect copy of them. He looked at himself—at Konstantin, the incubi lord who had sacrificed everything for the chance to kill a guardian angel. The angel who stood beside him, hands entwined.
