Feather (Angels of Elysium Book 1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

  Chapter 37

  Pounding on the door made us spring apart.

  After I’d spoken twenty lies, perhaps more, enough to satisfy Jarod that I wouldn’t be stolen from his world, he’d led me to one of the armchairs. I’d magicked my aching wings away as he’d slid me onto his lap and embraced me with arms that felt like steel bands.

  “Jarod!” Tristan’s voice made me blink my gummy lids open.

  Jarod stroked my cheek with his long fingers.

  “I know you’re in there,” Tristan said.

  “He’s going to tear down my door if I don’t let him in,” he muttered. “But if you don’t want to see him—”

  I sniffed, and his eyebrows knitted together.

  “I’m okay. Let him in. I should get back to the guild anyway.”

  “Jamais de la vie.” No way. “You’re not going back there, Feather. Not tonight.”

  “Ja-arod,” Tristan singsonged. “Come on, man. Let me in.”

  “Stay. Please,” he said, his tone urgent.

  “I’m not going to vanish through a Channel. You made sure of that.” I tried to smile, but the aftermath of shredding my wings was still rippling through me.

  “Fuck that. I want you here. With me. I need you here.”

  Warmth spread through me. “Okay, okay. I won’t go home.” I smoothed the furrows from his brow with my fingertips.

  “I’m coming in,” Tristan warned. “Hope she’s decent . . . Or that you’re willing to share.”

  Jarod muttered, “L’enculé,” before giving me one last fleeting kiss.

  The door soared wide.

  I sensed Tristan’s eyes on me.

  “Well, well,” he said in a voice that was so chirpy it sounded like he’d awakened from the longest and greatest nap of his life. “If it isn’t the stray I found on your doorstep.”

  Jarod’s body firmed up so fast it felt like I was sitting on concrete. “Don’t you ever fucking talk about Leigh like that!”

  I straightened my hunched spine and peeked over my shoulder.

  Tristan raised both his palms. “Pardon, Jarod. It was meant as a joke.”

  “Ask for her forgiveness, not mine,” Jarod growled.

  “I’m sorry, Leigh,” he said, his gaze roaming over my mottled face. “Everything okay?”

  I nodded. Everything was okay now.

  Another figure appeared behind Tristan—Muriel. “Jarod?” Even though she didn’t attach any other words to his name, I sensed she was asking him if he was all right.

  “Mimi, can you take Leigh upstairs?” I must’ve gone a shade paler, because he added, “She’ll stay the night in my old bedroom.”

  Muriel retied the belt on her cashmere robe. “Viens, ma chérie.” Come, my darling.

  Was I really staying the night in Jarod’s house? I’d never slept anywhere but in guilds . . . Then again, I’d never done a lot of the things I’d done tonight.

  As I reached Muriel’s side, Jarod said, “I’ll be up as soon as I can.” His expression was so full of worry that I wanted to run straight back into his arms and tell him I was truly all right, that I’d never been this all right. Instead, I held his gaze and smiled.

  He didn’t smile back, but his breathing seemed to even out.

  As Muriel closed the door, I heard Tristan say, “Had to yank a few fingernails out . . .”

  That sentence was like a cold shower, waking me up to the fact that the man I’d just ruined my wings for did terrible things or ordered others to do them on his behalf. He might share my kin’s blood, but Jarod Adler was no angel.

  I touched my lips as nausea rose, making my stomach contract.

  What had I done?

  What was I still doing?

  I needed to go home. I opened my mouth to tell Muriel I’d changed my mind, when she said, “I think Tristan enjoys what he does a little too much.” Darkness smudged the thin skin underneath her eyes.

  I stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “And Jarod? Does he enjoy it too?”

  “Jarod inherited his uncle’s sense of duty and morality.”

  “So, he doesn’t . . . hurt people?”

  “We don’t discuss his job, Leigh. The same way I never discussed it with Isaac. But I trust that if he hurts people he does it for a reason.”

  Money was the first one that came to mind. Revenge was another. Control. Many more words flowed freely through my mind, none easing my qualms.

  “Come now,” Muriel said.

  Suddenly, the staircase looked as though it led to a dungeon instead of apartments crafted in rich satins and glossed wood.

  “I-I . . .” Nerves skittering like claws against my skin, I glanced toward the pantry where I’d left my bag, then toward the study where the men spoke in such low tones it was impossible to hear what they were discussing.

  I want you here. With me. I need you here. Jarod’s plea and imploring gaze reeled through me.

  I’d promised to stay, and I was a woman of my word. Jarod had such little faith in angels—for good reason—that if I left, what would remain of his faith?

  The rules of my mission might have changed, but not its reason. I’d signed up to sprinkle light into his darkness. My methods were unorthodox, but if they led Jarod to become a better man, then it would be worth it.

  Sighing, I decided to follow Muriel up those stairs and see where they led.

  Chapter 38

  I trailed Muriel through the set of tall doors opposite Jarod’s bedroom. As she flicked on some lights, I understood why she’d referred to the bedrooms as apartments. We’d entered a large hallway decorated with framed charcoal drawings of women with cubic faces and asymmetric breasts in various stages of undress. When I read the scribbled signature at the edge of the thick vellum, I realized I was staring at works of art that were worth an insane amount of money.

  Muriel walked past them as though they’d become one with the cherry-wood paneling behind. She’d probably seen them so often they no longer impressed her. At the end of the hallway, she opened one of two doors.

  “This was the room Jarod grew up in.”

  I was expecting a little boy’s bedroom made up in a palette of blues and whites, complete with ships in bottles, dangling paper planes, and baskets brimming with toys. The only thing I’d gotten right was the blue, but it was far from the shade of the noon sky I’d envisioned. This was the color when twilight and dusk collided, a blue that was almost black.

  I took in the king-sized bed boxed into a dark wooden alcove with built-in shelves that didn’t seem suited for a child. “Was it redecorated?”

  Muriel stared around the room as though to check everything was still in its place. “No.”

  I peered out the window that gave onto a tall gray wall crusted in pigeon droppings and exhaust gas. The view was a far cry from the sumptuous courtyard with its stone fountain and tangled ivy.

  Muriel turned on the light in an adjoining bathroom made of white and gray stone tiles. Polished silver fixtures reflected my pale face, haggard green eyes, and snarled brassy hair. While I smoothed my hair back, Muriel opened the cupboard beneath the sink and removed a stack of folded towels, which she deposited on the side of a claw-footed tub.

  “Why don’t you take a hot bath? I’ll bring up your bag.”

  “I can go get it, Muriel.”

  “Nonsense. Stay here.” She patted my hands, which I was wringing together.

  Was she afraid I might bolt if I went back down the stairs? The thought did cross my mind.

  Before leaving, she turned on the bath faucet, and the gushing noise replaced the quiet stillness. “Do you need clothes?”

  “I actually packed some.” I blushed as I realized how that sounded. When she arched an eyebrow, I added, “I did something that made my family mad, so I wasn’t sure I would be welcomed home.”

  She scowled. “No mistakes are ever grave enough to turn away family.”

  I shrugged, and the movement reawakened a battery of little aches. Whe
re the twinge of one lost feather faded relatively swiftly, the pain of losing so many loitered. “I might’ve been overdramatizing. Maybe they wouldn’t have locked me out.”

  “Well, our doors are always open to you, ma chérie.”

  Her unmerited benevolence combined with the steam rising from the bath made the air suddenly too thick to breathe.

  “You don’t even know me, Muriel. Maybe I’m a horrible person.”

  The corners of her navy eyes crinkled along with those of her mouth. “You make my boy laugh. I haven’t heard him laugh in years. So even if you were horrible—which you’re not—I’d coerce you to stick around, just to hear that sound again.” She squeezed my shoulder as she walked past me. “I’ll be right back.”

  I was still standing in the exact same spot when she returned, watching the round mirror over the sink cloud and blur my reflection until I looked more wraith than angel, which seemed appropriate considering how unangelic I felt.

  I soaked in the bath until my muscles softened, my skin pruned, and the water turned tepid, then I towel-dried slowly, squeezing the foamy water from the ends of my hair.

  I was just slipping on a fresh pair of underwear and an oversized Eagles T-shirt one of my sinners had gifted me years ago when a knock resounded.

  My stomach tensed. “Come in.”

  As Jarod appeared in the doorway, I tugged on the hem of my T-shirt wishing there was more fabric to tug. So much of my legs was on display. What if the sight of my soft thighs made him gallantly retreat to his own bedroom?

  I searched his face for repulsion but found mostly fatigue. He slid his hands inside his pants pockets and leaned against the wooden frame, taking me in first before gazing around his bedroom as though he hadn’t visited it in years.

  He’d shed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, displaying lean, tanned forearms dusted by the same dark hair that peeked out from his open collar. I wasn’t sure if being attracted to hairy men was a thing, but possibly it was my thing, because the sight of all that virility was tightening various muscles in my body.

  “See something you like?”

  I gulped, then crossed my arms, trying to strangle the thrashing inside my chest before it made the rest of my body vibrate. “I remember you asking me this when we met.”

  One side of his mouth ticked up as he pushed away from the frame, kicked the door closed, and ambled toward me. “And I remember you avoiding replying.”

  I stood my ground as he reached me. Without heels, the top of my head barely cleared his chin.

  He looked down at me. “Were you afraid that declaring your overpowering lust would cost you a feather?”

  “Overpowering lust . . .” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll admit, I was intrigued.”

  “Intrigued, huh?” Smiling, he pulled one hand out of his pocket.

  Anticipation that he was about to touch some part of my body skittered in my blood. He didn’t, though. He rubbed his jaw, and the chafing sound made goose bumps spread over my skin.

  “Well, I was intrigued by you the moment I saw you hanging on to Tristan’s arm in your little mask.”

  My skin palpitated from his nearness. “The only thing that intrigued you back then was finding a way to destroy me.”

  He stopped rubbing his jaw. “I wanted to destroy your dress. And Tristan’s arm,” he added as an afterthought.

  His hand finally bridged the distance between our bodies, coming to wrap around the back of my head. I wondered if he was going to kiss me, but instead he just stared, and his dark eyes seemed to darken some more.

  “I’m sorry for what Tristan said downstairs.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, gripping onto his shirt in an attempt to keep myself upright, even though I had no doubt his hands were doing a better job of ensuring my verticality than my own. “You called me a stalker, remember?”

  He dropped his forehead to mine. “I’m so glad you stalked me, Feather.”

  “You didn’t look glad.”

  “Showing emotion gives people leverage over you.”

  “Your uncle taught you that?”

  He nodded.

  “Wish someone had taught me that.”

  The look of seriousness that invaded his face made me worry I’d said the wrong thing. “The world was an immensely drab place to live in before you burst through my doors, so full of light and color.”

  “Color, huh? Are you talking about my hair? I’ve always hated how colorful it was,” I added mournfully.

  “I’d say your hair’s the sexiest part about you, but I’d be doing the rest of your stunning body a great deal of injustice.”

  The heat in my cheeks made its way toward the juncture of my thighs. “No one’s ever called me sexy before.”

  “Only because they’re better-mannered than I am.” He tugged on my hair, tipping my head back at an almost painful angle. “And just so we’re clear, no one besides me gets to call you that from now on.”

  The heat of him, the growl of him, the feel of him threatened to make my heart jump right through my parted lips. I licked them, and his eyes flared. “You’re smoldering, Feather.”

  “Seems to happen a lot in your presence.” I moistened my lips again. “Are you going to just look at me or do something about it?”

  His lips curved into a smile so satisfied it rubbed my nerves raw. “What is it you want me to do, Feather?”

  “You could kiss me for starters,” I suggested, my voice barely audible.

  His dark eyes absorbed the glowing mess I’d become. “Where?”

  I sucked in a breath.

  Jarod pressed his mouth to my collarbone. “Here?” he whispered huskily, and I shivered. “Or . . .” He tugged on the collar of my T-shirt, and his mouth bore down on my shoulder. “Here? Or . . .” When he dragged his tongue in a straight line up the slope of my neck and tugged my earlobe inside his mouth, I worried for my ribs’ safety. He pulled away to inspect the effect of his kisses.

  “Anywhere, Jarod. Just—don’t stop,” I begged.

  “Careful what you wish for, Feather. I’m an extremely creative person.” He let go of my hair, and his hands tracked down the pebbled skin of my arms.

  Not that my mind was at its most lucid, but what the heck did creativity have to do with—oh!

  Jarod dropped down to his knees, his palms skating down the sides of my legs. When his hands swirled around my calves, and he kissed the inside of one knee, then the other, I all but choked on a gasp. Or was it a moan? The next kiss fell just below the hemline of my T-shirt.

  I scrambled to grab some part of him, managing a handful of hair. “Wait! Stop—” My heartbeats tasted like metal. “I—” If Jarod took this any farther, my wings were going to go up in smoke.

  Ophan Greer had taught us it was improper to have relations of a romantic nature outside of wedlock, yet my earlier orgasm hadn’t cost me anything. Was it because Jarod wasn’t completely human? Or because wings weren’t sexual organs?

  Jarod rose, then cradled my face. “I’m sorry.”

  A mad chuckle leaped out of me and made his brow crease. I sobered up, not wanting him to think I was laughing at his apology. “Oh, Jarod. Please don’t be sorry.”

  He frowned.

  “I’m just scared the Ishim are going to cremate what’s left of my feathers.” I shrugged, and my back stung again. Latching on to the hem of my T-shirt, I explained, “I grew up being told that sex out of wedlock was a carnal sin that would send me straight to Abaddon.”

  His eyebrows knitted, but at least, his nostrils stopped flaring in anguish. “So, without completed wings, you could be taken to Abaddon but not to Elysium?”

  The dissonance of his conclusion struck me. “You’re right . . . it makes little sense.” Why hadn’t I considered asking Ophan Greer this?

  “You didn’t lose any feathers for what I did to you earlier.”

  “I know.”

  “Have you ever wondered if the rules you were given were simply a way to keep y
ou in line?”

  “Not before I met you.”

  His pulse leaked through his thumbs and drummed against my cheekbones.

  “I don’t want to rush you into something you’re not ready for, Feather, especially if giving you pleasure causes you pain, but I also don’t want you to push me away because you’re scared of your people. Because if that’s the case—”

  “You’ll make me lie until I have no more feathers to lose?” I joked, but it wasn’t really a joke.

  Jarod’s gaze sharpened. “What would happen if you did lose all your feathers? Would it get rid of your wings?”

  The pressure of his palms and stare suddenly felt overwhelming, so I extricated my face from his grip, took a step back, and stared at the gray carpeting beneath our feet, tracing the edge of a discolored spot with my toe. I’d been willing to give up my wings to save Jarod’s soul, and then I’d ruined them to make sure I wasn’t ripped from Earth during the night, so my reaction to his question was incongruous.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.” He sank down on the edge of the bed, the mattress springs groaning underneath his weight. “I just loathe your system and wish—I wish I could protect you from it. From them.”

  But he couldn’t protect me, because if he stood between them and me, he’d get hurt . . . perhaps, irreparably so. “I shouldn’t be here, Jarod,” I said, staring at the dark locks of hair that were sticking out at odd angles around his head. “I shouldn’t have stayed.”

  He whipped his head up so fast his neck cracked.

  “I don’t want them to hurt you, Jarod.”

  His head jerked back some more in surprise. “Me?” His tone was almost maniacal. When he started laughing, I realized he wasn’t taking my concern seriously.

  “I’m not trying to be cute,” I said, frustrated.

  His eyes still danced, but he sobered up, and then he pulled on my hand and towed me toward him until I had the choice between toppling ungracefully beside him or falling into his lap. Toppling would have been the safer option, but I’d forfeited safety the day I’d pushed my palm into my holo-ranker’s glass screen and my name had appeared over Jarod Adler’s three-dimensional picture.