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When the dance is over Arsene’s eyes meet his across the clearing. Nur looks away quickly.
Anchor yourself to him, his vergis whispers.
Shut up, he tells it.
The light fadesas they enter the landscape of carved stone, hoodoos casting shadows that stretch to swallow them whole. The air turns bitingly cold as soon as the sun disappears. The caravan stops in the canyon before the moon and stars even show their faces so they can build a fire against the sudden chill. Nur climbs into his bed after the fire dies down and drags the blanket tight around him, but the chill digs into his bones. He almost wishes he was still delirious so the cold would be a minor thing. Instead he’s fully cognizant and…uncomfortable.
He sighs and rolls around, trying to find a position that preserves warmth. He’ll have precious few minutes of it when Arsene comes to wake him—waves of delicious heat always roll off him. Nur shudders in anticipation. Maybe this time he’ll let the angel linger.
Quick on its heels, a different fantasy unfurls. His feet shift restlessly as his thoughts run wild. Arsene might ask to beallowedto hold him. A deep prickle of satisfaction seizes him. Nur could graciously accept, letting himself be enfolded in his warm, deeply scented presence. Maybe Arsene’s cock will pulse against him as his primus awakens, unable to resist Nur.
Nur’s hole twitches and his body heats on its own at the memory of Arsene’s thick bulge.
In his half-waking dream Arsene bares his neck willingly, but Nur’s ever present hunger is gone; instead he tastes the skin there, lingers on the faint scar that now stamps Arsene like a mark of ownership, and Arsene’s throat vibrates under his tongue with a murmur of pleasure. It’s so vivid he can practically taste Arsene’s skin.
Nur pulls the blanket tighter around himself.
My mark. Everyone who sees it will know Arsene belonged to him first.
Even his future mate.
The dream image slips through his fingers and Nur shoves his face into his pillow, his horns catching the fabric and tearing it open. Down feathers puff into the air. The pillow smells like him and only him. It’s all wrong.
He hateswantingthe angel. Almost as much as he loves it. With a growl, he pushes himself off the bed and tosses the blanket aside.
Two sets of stars wink down at Nur as he leaves the tent, and the moon is a sharp half-disc blurring into wisps of cloud. Nur’s breath blurs the same, and he resents spilling his warmth. He laces his boots with stiff fingers and heads into the dark.
The bond tells him where to go. Arsene is some ways from the perimeter of camp, his presence a warm blob in the aether. Nur can’t resist it. He deserves to take his fill today, doesn’t he? Arsene will be gone tomorrow, anyway. He’ll move on and forget about Nur, and Nur will lose himself to madness and fade into the aether. But today he can bask in that warmth.
Chapter 26
NUR
He findsthe angel perched atop a ledge, barely visible from the canyon floor—just a sliver of brightness. Arsene stands up abruptly and comes to the edge of the cliff as he approaches.
“It’s not your watch yet,” he calls down, hushed. He sounds flustered. He looks different.
It takes Nur a few long moments to realize it’s because Arsene’s wings are no longer confined to the aether, but fully visible—huge, white, arcing above his head. The pendant he always wears hidden winks in the middle of his naked chest, teasing.
Nur digs his fingers into his arms. “I’m not tired.”
Arsene’s mouth twitches down. Instead of sending Nur away, though, he beckons him closer. “Come up, then.”
Nur climbs the rock and pulls himself over the ledge, his fingers so cold they barely cooperate. Arsene leans down and helps him up. Something prods Nur’s arm as he does, and when the angel steps away Nur spots an intricately carved gold comb in his hand, a jewel-set spike on the end that looks like a knife blade.
“It’s, uh, for grooming.” Arsene tucks the comb away. “Sorry. I expected everyone to be asleep at this hour.”
“What are you apologizing for?” Nur raises a brow. Of all things,thisis what drags an apology out of the angel?
Arsene grimaces. “Force of habit. It’s primitive to let your wings out, unless you’re a vergis or primus—and even then, they’re only used for mating.”
“I can see them in the aether, you know,” Nur tells him. “Aren’t you a primus, anyway?”
“Hah.” Arsene scoffs. “Not according to the Council. I should put them away.”
“Don’t hide them.” Nur reaches out. His fingers graze the soft edge of a feather, but the wing twitches away.
“They’re very sensitive,” Arsene says apologetically.
