by Sarah Gilman
“Yes.” The Guardian joined him under the pavilion, the same location where Kes had kissed Saffron during the thunderstorm. He leaned against the railing. Dec’s orange eyes were brighter than normal—if that were possible—under the light of the demon-fire lamp that illuminated the shelter for the evening. “She was treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, then released.”
Kes stared out at the dark gardens. Demons worked, trimming the bushes in preparation for winter. The scent of frost filled the air. Had it been only a few months since Saffron had left? Seemed like years. Long, empty years. Every day, he carried a sense of loss.
“Our liaison in the Montreal Police says every single feather was destroyed. Half the mansion along with them.”
“That’s fantastic news,” Kes said, hearing the flatness in his own voice. Despite the momentous announcement, Kes couldn’t muster much enthusiasm. He was suddenly too tired. Tired of the ridiculous ache in his chest. “I’m going to turn in.”
Her actions made it all worse. Torching the family collection was not only respectable, but redeemable. If there was any way for her, as a Morin, to earn the colony’s respect, she had done it. Kes could conceivably invite her to visit him and Roman would allow it. Of course, he’d burned that bridge, chopped the ropes, and let the bond they’d had fall flaming into a bottomless canyon.
He stepped out from under the pavilion and spread his wings, though they felt weighted.
“There’s more.” The Guardian’s voice held a peculiar weight.
“What?”
“She’s here.”
Kes blinked. “Here? As in here?”
“She showed up at the gate. Virgil took her to the town hall and called me. He asks that you come as soon as possible. She’s been giving him an earful. If profanity can kill, his end is near.”
“Why is she here?”
Dec glowered. “At the gate, she was yelling for you. Go on. Don’t keep the lady waiting.”
Kes took off and shot through the night toward the town hall, using the strategically placed lights on the tops of the buildings to guide his way. Why was she here? He could understand her wanting a piece of Virgil. She deserved that. Why had she asked for him?
Well, she deserved to have at him, too, if that’s what she wanted. But, what more was there to say?
He landed on the central flight deck and walked into the lobby. The Guardian on duty—a scrawny juvenile in pre-training—nodded in greeting and pointed toward a set of closed conference room doors.
Despite the hell he was likely in for, he hurried onward, eager to see her.
Inside the simple but large room, Virgil sat at one end of the conference table. Saffron sat on the other, her arms tightly folded.
“Finally.” The demon stood, his eyes wide. “From the way she’s been yelling at me, you’d think I’d tried to kill her loved ones.” Despite the flippant words, his tone was humble, his voice quiet.
“Crisse.” Saffron glowered and pointed at the Guardian. “Ostie de ciboire de crisse.”
“You have my upmost respect for your recent actions, Ms. Morin.” Virgil glanced at Kes. “I’m gone.” He rushed out the door.
Kestrel stood still, his mind blank to everything but the sight of her. She wore her hair down, the dark-blond strands cascading around her delicate violet sweater. She stood and walked toward him, revealing that the top was actually a sweater dress that continued over her curving hips and halfway down her thighs. She balanced on heeled sandals, her steps light, as if she treaded on a fragile floor. White bandages hugged parts of her right hand and arm.
His stomach dropped to his feet. He whispered, “You shouldn’t have put yourself in danger, Saffron.”
She stopped in front of him. “I was careful.”
“Not careful enough.” He took her arm and ran his fingers over the neat cotton strips.
“Why do you care?” She stared intently at him, her tone guarded.
“Because, Saffron.” He swallowed. “Because I do.”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed his lips. Ran her tongue over his.
Clutching her, he warmed for the first time in three months, a deep chill finally gone. When they broke free for air, he refused to loosen his arms. She dropped her head to his chest, a soothing weight.
“Did you get in trouble, helping my family?”
He chuckled with no humor. “The demons got to the mansion and your parents were gone. No one knows I had anything to do with it. I think some suspect, but they don’t have the guts to accuse me.” He sighed and stroked her hair. “Why are you here?”
“Because I forgive you,” she murmured.
He scoffed. “You can’t.”
“I have. Because of you, my mom met me at the hospital and my dad brought me sandwiches from our favorite deli after I’d recovered from surgery.” She stroked his feathers, making him hold her even tighter. “This colony wanted my parents dead—probably still does. I don’t blame any of you for that. But you…you saved their lives, despite what they’ve done to your kind. Thank you.”
“Saffron.” He kissed her temple, her lips, her throat. Was this really happening, or was it a cruel dream? He ran his hands down the curves of her body. Warm, vital, real. Her scent filled his lungs. No dream could ever do her justice. “I’ve missed you.”
“However, I expect groveling.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” She pulled away and folded her arms. “A lot of groveling. So much groveling, I’ll have to spend a lot of time here, if the demons will allow it.”
“They will.” He teased her ears with his fingertips. He loved how she shut her eyes and leaned into his touch whenever he did that. “Define…groveling.”
“Hmm.”
He wrapped a wing around her and ran his flight feathers up the back of her legs.
Her lips pinched. “Tickling is not groveling.”
“Yes, it is.” He repeated the motion.
She tried to wiggle away, but he caught her with his other wing and cradled her head in his hands. He pressed his lips to hers and kissed her until she calmed.
“I haven’t been able to move on from you,” she said, all teasing gone from her voice. “I love you, Kestrel. I didn’t know what to do about that, so I burned the feather collection. My parents might not speak to me again for a decade, or two or three, but I needed to be welcome back here. I needed you.”
“I love you, too.” He stroked her cheek. Kissed her jaw. “How’s your sister handling it?”
“She’s pretty mad, too, actually.”
“You two share a house, right? Do you need someplace else to stay?”
She smiled.
“If I’m going to grovel long term, I want to do so properly. Stay with me.”
“Yes.”
He picked her up, carried her out of the room, and out onto the flight deck. As he flew to the tower, she kissed his neck, and for the first time in a long time, he looked forward to what was going to happen next.
Acknowledgments
A big thank you goes out to Jeanne Haskin. Without her thoughts, I might never have named this novella.
I’m endlessly grateful to my editor, Marie Loggia-Kee, and Entangled Publishing, for making this series possible.
About the Author
Sarah Gilman writes paranormal romance. Her fascination with all things winged extends back to childhood, when images of the ancient Egyptian goddess Isis captured her imagination and never let go. She lives in Vermont with her supportive husband and two spoiled cats.
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