Налини Сингх - Archangel's Sun

He’d kept his harem, kept his life away from her and Illium in the Refuge.

Sharine hadn’t attempted to clip his wings, hadn’t sought to alter the core of his nature, content with the scraps of affection he threw her way.

How foolish she’d been, how hungry for connection.

But it all added up to a single conclusion: he’d had no reason to strike out. Not only at her but at her son. Their son. Forget what he’d done to her, it would’ve cost him nothing to have gone to Illium and hugged him good-bye. It would’ve taken but a sliver of his time to tell their boy that his father was going to Sleep for a period, but that he loved him and would return.

Such things mattered to a child, mattered deeply.

For breaking their bright, beautiful boy’s small heart, Sharine would never forgive him. Never . Even if she lived to the end of time and beyond.

No one hurt her child.

Hand fisting at her side, her nails digging into her skin, she opened the door of the suite and stepped out into the hallway. That hallway was wide and fell away onto a massive central core. Walking to the railingless edge, she looked down and realized that she was about three stories up in a huge citadel built of gray stone that was both martial and hard—and lovely.

Fine veins of minerals wove through the stone “bricks” and each piece of stone had gradations of color that caught her eye and had her running a hand over the nearest support pillar. It was warmer than she’d expected, the stone smooth from all the time it had stood here, all the warriors and others who had placed their hands against it.

It could’ve been a cold place, but the stone had a glowing heart, and against the walls of the central core hung tapestries lush with the life of this land. Huge works of art that she could stand in front of for hours, taking in detail by detail. But that was just the start. Above her curved a gently sloping ceiling on which had been painted a night sky sparkling with the stars she’d see if she looked up after darkfall.

Each star, she realized suddenly, was a dazzling gemstone turned tiny by the distance.

Below her, meanwhile, was a buzz of constant movement.

Titus’s people walked this way and that and crisscrossed over what looked to be a massive carpet in the colors of sunset that could’ve come from Morocco. Perhaps during a time prior to the warlike tension between Titus and Charisemnon. Most of those she saw wore weathered and bloodied warrior gear, including more than one angel in full, lightweight armor that wouldn’t impede them in the sky.

But she also spotted one angel and two vampires who looked to be in the livery of household staff, the colors rich gold and deepest brown. Titus’s colors. They were rushing, their faces hot and sweat dampening their hair.

Sharine had the terrible feeling it was because of her.

“You are ready!” The heavy boom of sound didn’t startle her; she’d heard Titus’s door open and close.

Annoyed at his tone and in no mood to hide it, she said, “You sound surprised.”

He looked taken aback, all big shoulders and heavy muscle under a pair of brown pants that hugged his thighs, and a white shirt with a rounded collar and an opening that came to partway down his breastbone, the swirling golden tattoo she’d glimpsed earlier now concealed.

He’d folded back the sleeves of his shirt to reveal heavily muscled forearms, his skin a dark, dark brown with a richness of depth. Wings of golden honey and cream arched over his shoulders, his control a master class in warrior discipline.

Droplets of water glinted in his closely cut black curls.

He was a beautiful man. But Sharine had no time for beautiful men. One of them had ruined her life. Yes, she had a beautiful man for a son and an equally beautiful man for a protégé, but that was beside the point. Aodhan and Illium—and yes, Raphael, too—occupied a different sphere in her mind. She’d seen them as babies, kissed their skinned knees, smiled under their exuberant affection.

Every other beautiful man in the world could go jump in the molten heart of a volcano and she wouldn’t care. That applied especially to the beautiful archangel who thought Sharine was an ornament, breakable and useless in his territory’s desperate battle for survival.

“I know the ladies of my court often take their time,” Titus ventured at last, his voice moderated to a lower volume that irritated her—did he think her so weak she couldn’t even take his voice ?

That was when his words penetrated: . . . the ladies of my court . . .

She hadn’t heard that he kept a harem, but it wouldn’t surprise her to be wrong. “Where are your ladies?”

“On a safe island.” He sighed. “The entire gentle court begs to come home but it isn’t safe—and those of the gentle court wouldn’t be happy here.”

Bristling at the idea of the women being banished as if they were children, she said, “I’ve heard that the women of Astaad’s harem are helping their people in the aftermath of war. Can not your ‘gentle court’ assist in the same way?”

Throwing back his head, Titus laughed, the sound echoing around the space, it was such a huge and joyous one. She found herself transfixed by him for a long moment. Forcefully shaking her head the instant she became aware of what she was doing, she looked once more at the floor below. People were smiling now, their cheeks creased and their steps lighter.

As if his warmth and happiness was contagious.

“The gentle court isn’t only made up of women—and none bar one within it are warriors or administrators,” Titus said when he finally stopped chuckling, then ruined what good he’d achieved by adding, “Elia is a woman of brilliance but her duty is to the court’s children. The rest of her brethren are pampered creatures who’d faint at the sight of blood—and expire at a torn hem.”

Sharine barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “Oh,” she said gently.

His eyebrows drew together, the onyx of his eyes getting even darker. “Oh?” It came out a deep grumble, his wings flaring out then snapping shut.

She smiled, a heat in her blood that pushed at her to push him. “Where are we to eat? I’m hungry after my long journey.”

Titus’s wings . . . quivered. That was the only word she could use to describe the tiny motion that rippled through his tightly held wings. “Of course, Lady Sharine,” he said in an obnoxiously formal tone, his voice modulated into a lower range.

Eyes narrowed, Sharine nonetheless kept her silence as he stepped off the edge of the hallway, using his wings to initiate a controlled descent to the ground level. When she followed, she found herself the recipient of many smiles and bows, did her best to return them all.

None of these people had to suffer her bad temper simply because their archangel was a . . . what had one of the young ones in her court muttered recently? Ah yes, a blockhead. Sharine wasn’t certain of the definition of that word, but if it meant what it sounded like it meant, then it was the perfect choice of word to describe her host.

“If you will accompany me.” Titus’s scent was clean and fresh next to her as he led her through a large and ornate hallway decorated with ancient artefacts and weapons, and into a spacious room awash with the morning sun as a result of the huge doors currently open to the outside air.

“I will close those if you wish,” Titus said in that same—grating—formal tone. “I find I enjoy the sounds from the courtyard, but they might be overwhelming to someone used to quieter climes.”

She felt like telling him she had a knife. It had been a gift from Raphael’s Elena, one she’d found on her bedside table after Elena left Lumia prior to the war. With it had been a note: I’d be honored if you’d accept this gift as a memory of the fun we had stabbing those targets. Also, you should keep up the stabbing practice—you have a rare natural balance when you throw the blade.