Wake up, Elena.

Elena frowned, batting away the sound. Every time she tried to sleep, he told her to wake. Dratted man. Didn't he know she needed to rest?

Elena, Sara has set her hunters on me.

As if he had anything to worry about from even the toughest vampire hunter.

She's threatening to tell the media I'm doing unnatural things with your body.

A smile in her mind, in her soul. The archangel had a sense of humor. Who knew?

Ellie?

He never called her Ellie, she thought, yawning. The first thing she saw when she blinked open her eyes was blue. Endless, fathomless, brilliant blue. Raphael's eyes. And that quickly, she remembered. The blood, the pain, the shattered bones. "Damn it, Raphael. If I have to drink blood, I'm going to suck your gorgeous body dry." Her voice was husky, her anger absolute.

The archangel smiled and it held such fierce joy that she wanted to grab on to him and never let go. "You're very welcome to suck any part of my body you wish."

She wouldn't laugh, wouldn't surrender to the hunger she saw in those immortal eyes. "I told you I didn't want to be a vampire."

He fed her chips of ice, cooling her parched throat. "Are you not at least a little glad to be alive?"

She was a lot glad. Being with Raphael . . . oh, well, how bad could blood taste? But-"I'm not doing any vampire lackey stuff."

"Fine."

"I'm only drinking your blood."

That made his smile widen. "Fine."

"That means you're stuck with me." She jutted out her chin. "Try to throw me off for some bimbo and we'll see who's immortal."

"Fine."

"I expect-" That was when she felt the weird lumps under her back. "Whoever made this bed did a shit job. It's all lumpy."

Blue, blue eyes laughed at her. "Really?"

"Hey, it's not fun-" Her words ended on a choked breath as she turned her head and saw what she was lying on. Wings. Such beautiful wings. A rich, evocative black that swept gracefully outward in subtle increments of indigo, deepest blue, and dawn until the primaries were a vivid, shimmering white gold. Midnight wings. Incredible wings. And she was squashing them. "Oh, my God! I'm crushing an angel. Let me up!"

Raphael helped her rise when she held out her hand. The tube stuck into her arm hindered her movement. "What?"

"To keep you alive."

"How long?" she asked, shifting to look over her shoulder. His answer was lost in the rush of white noise that crashed across her brain. Because she hadn't been squashing anyone . . . but herself. "I have wings."

"A warrior's wings." He brushed his finger over one edge and the sensation rocketed through her entire body. "Wings like blades."

"Oh," she said when she could speak again, "I guess I really am dead then." That made sense. She'd always wanted wings and now she had them. Ergo, she was dead and in heaven. She turned. "You look just like Raphael." He smelled of the sea, a clean, fresh bite that made her body sing.

He kissed her.

And he tasted far too real, far too earthy, to be a figment of her imagination. When he drew back, she was stunned to see the emotion in his eyes. It was shocking enough to make her forget the magic of the wings at her back. "Raphael?"

That blue glittered fever bright, the skin pulled taut over his cheekbones. "I'm very angry at you, Elena."

"So what else is new?" she quipped, but found herself stroking the arch of his wing.

"I am immortal and you tried to save my life by endangering your own?"

"Stupid, huh?" Leaning close, she rubbed her nose over his. Stress-touches, she thought stupidly, they were called stress-touches, the little things that lovers did to anchor each other, the things that were their secret language. Her and Raphael's language had barely begun, but it held a promise so raw, so rich, her heart twisted inside her chest, almost afraid of the fury of it. "I couldn't let you be hurt. You belong to me." Such an arrogant thing to say to an archangel.

He closed his eyes, dropping his forehead against hers. "You'll be the death of me, Elena."

She smiled. "You need a little excitement in that boring old life of yours."

Those eyes opened, blinding in their intensity. "Yes. So you will not die. I've made certain of it."

She was half convinced she'd imagined the wings, but the beautiful sweep of midnight hadn't disappeared when she checked out of the corner of her eye. "How the hell did you attach prosthetic wings to my back in the course of a . . ." She paused. "Okay, no soreness from the wounds so, what, it's been a week? No, longer." She frowned, trying to reorder splintered pieces of memory. "I had broken bones . . . my back?"

The archangel smiled again, his forehead still touching hers, his wings arching over to shadow them in their own private world. "The wings aren't prosthetic and you've been asleep for a year."

Elena swallowed. Blinked. Tried to breathe. "Angels Make vampires, not other angels."

"There is one-how would you put it-loophole."

"Loophole? More like a giant cavern if I have wings." She held on to him, the only solid thing in a shifting universe.

"No, it is the tiniest of holes, barely a pinprick. You're the first angel to have been Made in all the years of my existence."

"Lucky me," she whispered, brushing her fingers along his nape and drinking in his sigh of pleasure. This moment, it felt frozen out of time. Here, she was simply a woman, and he was simply a man. But like all moments, it had to pass. "What are the requirements?"

"Nothing we've ever been able to manipulate, though angels have tried for millennia." Those incredible, unearthly eyes held her prisoner. "The one and only time an archangel can Make another angel is when our bodies produce a substance known as ambrosia."

A snapshot of memory-the golden, melting heat of his kiss, the delicate sweetness, the lush sensuality, the taste that was an erotic sensation and whispered caress in one. "The mythical food of the gods?"

"Every myth holds a grain of truth."

She couldn't help it, she kissed him again. And the taste of him rushed over her in a tumultuous wave. He was the one who broke the kiss.

You were very badly injured, Elena.

The aches inside her were a testament to that truth. That didn't mean she had to like it. "Tell me about ambrosia then." A bad-tempered command.

"Ambrosia," he said against her mouth, "is produced instinctively at a single point in an archangel's life."

Images of his shredded wings, the living burn of angelfire. "Near death?" She touched him, checking, exploring, convincing herself he was alive.

"We've all been near death more than once." He shook his head. "No one has ever been able to pinpoint the trigger."

"But?"

"But it is legend that ambrosia only rises when-"

She held her breath.

"-an archangel loves true."

The world stopped. The air particles seemed to still above her, the molecules suspended as she stared at the magnificence of the man who held her in his arms. "Maybe I was just biologically compatible." It came out a ragged whisper.

"Perhaps." The possession of lips against her neck. "We have eternity to discover the truth. And in that eternity, you will be mine."

She thrust her hands into his hair, feeling heat spread through her body in a rolling wave. But she couldn't surrender. Not until they got one thing straight. "Fine-so long as you don't think that gives you the right to rule my life."

He came over her as she lay back down. "Why not?"

She blinked at the cool arrogance of that question, and realized that her existence had just become a whole lot more interesting. Forget about hunting an archangel, she was about to learn how to dance with one without losing herself in the process. Exhilaration spiked through her bloodstream. "This is going to be some ride, Archangel."