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He breathed in her sparkling scent, tasting the crackle of fear, and brushed his jaw against her feather-soft cheek, then whispered the truth into her ear. His name. A name he’d dared not speak in ten years. It was freeing really, to speak the truth he’d so long clung to, keeping it chained inside himself. “No…” she gasped, and the last bright spark of hope faded from her eyes. He let her look into his eyes, really look, and finally, she saw him beneath the lies. And she understood it all. “I will be the end of all of you.”
angels were supposed to protect all humans from the demons, and in return, humans worshipped the angels like gods, while the imperfect cambions and nephilim hid on the fringes of the world, destined to never be embraced by either perfect race. Destined to be corrected, a process that killed more than it saved.
An angel had performed an allyanse on Severn—he’d shared his soul. Not only was it rare, but it shouldn’t have been possible. And not just any angel. The angel destiny demanded Severn kill. He had to kill him. He’d sacrificed everything to kill Mikhail. There was no other way. And now Severn was… bound to him? Life to life, soul to soul. A bond usually reserved for angels coupling for life. Oh, the irony.
Angels did not feel. They did not rage, or weep, or regret. Emotions were inefficient. When Mikhail had seen Argothun impale Severn, something in him had broken open and spilled free, momentarily blinding him to the battle and his purpose within it.
A fist locked in Severn’s hair and yanked his head to the side. Mikhail’s mouth burned against Severn’s throat. “I need you,” the guardian whispered. “In ways I can’t make sense of.”
“You know, demons don’t care what gender fucks what, or who fucks whom.” He flicked a careless gesture at the dresser. “Even furniture, if the mood strikes.” Mikhail regarded the dresser and couldn’t imagine ever wanting to insert a part of himself anywhere inside such an inanimate object.
The angel had his head tipped back again, his eyes closed. He wasn’t sleeping, but he was elsewhere. He had a few hundred years of memories to call upon to keep him company, whereas Severn only had half a century.
“Do you know who I am?” “I have a good idea. Only one idiot angel struts around London shirtless.” He gave up tugging on the bindings and slumped, panting. “I do not strut.” “Uh-huh. And I suppose neither do cockerels.”
Severn watched how they avoided getting too close to him or Mikhail, afraid they’d catch emotion, which would have been hilarious if it weren’t so sad.
Severn pulled free and tossed his head back. “Will you fuck me, Your Grace?” There was a wrongness in the way he asked, like his sadness was a lingering storm. “No,” Mikhail whispered against his ear. “But I will love you, if you’ll let me.”
