“Idabel!” A voice called from the cave above theirs in a thickly accented version of the common tongue. “We need you!”
She grabbed her healing kit, already moving toward the ladder. This was her life now, at the beck and call of her new community, but it was deeply satisfying to be of use. This time, an injured gargoyle in the mason’s cave had torn her wing during the evening hunt, membranes shredded beyond what a limestone-paste repair could heal.
“This will only take a few minutes,” Idabel murmured soothingly to the young female as she spread a numbing salve over the wounds. The patient relaxed as it took effect and her pain diminished.
Idabel’s mentor mason, an ancient gargoyle named Mahault, watched approvingly as Idabel threaded a needle with silk and began to repair the wing.
“You see how she supports the membrane while stitching?” Mahault asked her two apprentices, who held the lanterns overIdabel’s work so she could see more clearly. “Human hands are small and deft, so she makes it look easy. You will have to practice before you attempt this on living flesh.”
“Is it true you saved Commander Brandt from wall-sickness?” one of the apprentices ventured, once she had finished and sent the patched-up patient on her way.
“He saved himself. But I brewed a tonic to speed things along, and the mate bond helped the most.” They pressed her for details, and she gave them readily. She was used to endless questions about her mate. The southern cliffs thrived on gossip, and Brandt’s reputation had grown to mythic proportions as the commander who’d returned from war six years late, killed a corrupt watchmate, and chosen love over position.
“I heard a moth say he fought a hundred goblins single-handed,” the other young apprentice added.
“Moths exaggerate, but I’m not sure he would tell you the tale differently.” Idabel shared an amused look with Mahault. Brandt was going to love hearing the latest rumor.
She’d become quite fond of moths, actually. Loïc kept a terrarium of his own now that he tended faithfully. The moth network was the most reliable source of news from Solvantis, and Ghantal regularly sent the latest gossip for Loïc to translate: Bardoux passed away. Rikard recovered enough to assume his position as Nadir. And the Zenith finally publicly claimed Ghantal as his mate and moved her into the highest tier, shocking everyone in the Tower.
Missives from her human friends arrived occasionally too. Hannalinde sent an embroidered tablecloth as a cave-warming gift. Betje’s apothecary was flourishing, by the accounts in her letters.I miss you, she wrote.I was sad when I Saw you were leaving, but I knew you’d find your place.
Her place. Yes, the cliffs were that. Not just physically, but spiritually, too. Being back in the south again was a healingthat went deeper than her medicines could reach. She’d never have her siblings or her farm back, but she had the wide skies and fields of growing things that she’d missed so dearly. Every gargoyle she saved, every wound she mended, helped balance the scales of her past. It didn’t erase the losses of her family and the Sixth Watch, but it gave her penance a purpose. It turned her grief into something bearable.
She was back home and already in her nightdress when Brandt returned from patrol. When he landed beside her, the wind from his wings stirring the sorted herbs.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Go where?”
“You’ll see.” His grin held mischief she’d learned to both love and fear. “Loïc is staying with friends tonight.”
“Let me get my—”
She’d been going to say “boots,” but he was already lifting her, launching into the star-filled sky before she could protest. Her fingers dug into the dense, leathery hide of his shoulders and her legs banded around his waist as the ground fell away into a dizzying drop.
His huge wings beat a steady rhythm that vibrated through her body like an enormous heartbeat. His cock, a rigid, demanding pressure against her stomach through the thin fabric of her shift, seemed to pulse in time with every powerful downstroke. It was all too clear what he had in mind for their evening. They climbed higher than usual, until the cliffs were distant smudges and the moon seemed close enough to touch.
His arms, corded with muscle, tightened around her, one hand splayed possessively against the small of her back. The other cupped the back of her head, holding her safe. “Do you trust me?” he asked against her ear.
“Always.”
A low, grinding rumble started deep in his chest, a gravelly purr. Her mate was happy. “Hold on tight,” he warned.
He didn’t slow his flight as he adjusted his grip. His claws hooked the hem of her dress, rucking it up. The damp night air kissed her thighs, her lower stomach, her bare sex. It was a shocking intimacy that made her gasp.
He shifted her weight effortlessly so his thick fingers found her wetness, stroking through her folds with a possessive skill that made her cry out. “So ready for me,” he growled, the words humming against her temple. “So ready to stretch on my cock and take my seed.”
He positioned himself, the broad, flared head of his cock pressing against her entrance. The wind loosened her hair from its braid, whipping it around them as he began to push inside. He entered her with a perfect, burning fullness that stole the air from her lungs, and she welcomed every aching, exquisite inch.
“Yes,” she moaned, her head falling back. “Please.”
He held her hips and bucked into her as much as the position allowed, the movement scrubbing her beaded nipples across his stony chest through the soft fabric of her nightdress. Her internal muscles clenched around him, tearing a raw sound from his throat.
His rhythm was made all the more intense by the fact that they wereflying. With each powerful downward thrust of his wings, he drove his cock deeper, the force of their motion amplifying every sensation. She was being taken, thoroughly and completely, in mid-air. His brutish satisfaction pulsed through the bond.
“I can feel you,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Every wicked squeeze. You’re milking my cock, Idabel. You want it, don’t you? You want me to seed you.”
“Fallen gods, yes,” she sobbed, the pleasure a sharp, coiling thing in her gut. “I want everything. Give me everything.”
