“My pants are soaked,” Celine says, pawing weakly at the skintight material.
Clenching my jaw, I pull them down for her, keeping my eyes on her face. I’ve imagined her this way hundreds of times, cradled against my heart where she belongs.
Tenderly, I lay her on the bed, pleased that her wounds have closed. Pale pink circles are all that remain of the gouges. I pull the blanket to her chin, fold it around her, and check the foot of the bed to make sure the covers are securely tucked. I don’t want her to be disrupted by a draft, although the acrid heat here is brutal.
I lift my head when she calls my name, surprised to see her eyes fixed on my face. “I won today, but it was too close. You’ll have to push me hard to get me back where I need to be. We’ll be lucky to survive one wave of Dad’s assassins if I can’t?—”
“Shh,” I say. Grabbing her hand, I pull it off the covers and hook our thumbs together, the rest of our fingers flaring in opposite directions. Wings—locked, made whole by two hands joining. It’s an olderthatshacustom, but I want her to know I’m serious. “I swear, My Truth, that I’ll prepare you to face him, but you cannot get stronger if you refuse to rest.”
Celine tilts her head, a small smile on her lips as she looks at our joined hands. “You’ve changed, haven’t you?”
I nod, although I don’t believe it. Can someone change when their purpose never falters? Since the first time I laid eyes on her, as a chubby boy with rounded cheeks and stubby wings, I’ve known she was my destiny. That was the moment I changed. Now, I simply adapt to fit her needs.
“Celine, you cannot leave me behind again,” I say firmly. “Let me be by your side. Not knowing...” Anxiety consumed me.
She searches my face before nodding, her eyes softening. “I understand.” She yawns. “For the record, I’m not hiding you, Malach, I just don’t want to draw more attention to the situation than I have to. Angels aren’t common in the Fringes.”
“I can keep my wings tucked,” I say reluctantly.
Her eyelashes flutter.
“Sleep now,” I whisper. “I will ensure the shifter wakes you.”
“Not sure how you plan to do that.” Luca emerges from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist. “Do you even know how to read a clock?”
He slides under the covers, poking the screen of his cell phone methodically as he tucks himself into Celine’s side. I grit my teeth and barely stop myself from informing him that I can tell time in at least ten different ways—no clock needed.
“I set an alarm,” he whispers, kissing Celine’s temple.
She nods, her breathing evening out as she relaxes in his arms.
I leave the room before I ask to stay.
NINE
Enclave Edict #94:
We do not interfere. We endure.
CIPRIAN
There are bad chefs all over the universe—busy cooking up bland food, stringy vegetables, and putrid, suspicious seafood dishes. The only reason they get away with it is that we’ve all got to eat, and some of us aren’t fans of sweating over a hot stove.
No culinary crime is worse, though, than burned steak. Blackened and charred, tough as leather—it’s appealing to absolutely no one.
And that’s how I feel inside.
While slinking around the compound, no fewer than ten people spot me and take off in the opposite direction. One demon even bangs his shin on the fountain in his hurry. It’s almost funny, but I can’t manage to laugh. Too much effort; too little reward—kind of like cooking.
I’m beginning to think I either smell of burned meat, or my mood is so obvious they’re scaredto cross me.
Yelling at Dad hasn’t helped... any of the three times I’ve tried it. Even though I was crystal fucking clear, he only blinked at me as if he couldn’t understand a word I said. It made me feel about six inches tall—which was exactly what he wanted.
Dad possesses the uncanny ability to ignore every concrete thing I say and latch on to the only loose thread, yanking on it until he convinces himself my entire argument is unraveling. It’s his specialty, and a hell of a way to avoid stumbling over personal accountability.
I grit my teeth and deepen my stretch, the ache in my ribs blooming as they expand to let in air.
Bees drone around the hedge maze, and the smell of fresh-cut grass sticks to the back of my throat. I’ve been coming to the heart of the maze to rehab from my beating. The training grounds in the courtyard are too public—I’d rather lick my wounds in private—but the silence is tearing me to shreds.
