He’d been raised by five very strong women, all of whom he respected to the core and all of whom would come after him with unsheathed blades if he disrespected any other woman in such a way. His mother would wake from her Sleep out of sheer disgust.

No, Titus didn’t force women. Ever.

However, there was no rule against making sure he had it right. “No for today?” he asked, because if so, she was right in stopping this—it wasn’t the time or place. He’d probably already shocked half his troops into a coma by manhandling her with such familiarity. “Or no forever?” It made his stomach tighten to ask the latter and the raw need of it terrified him, and yet he asked.

She’d dug her way under his skin, a burr he couldn’t dislodge . . . and didn’t want to reject. Surely, if he believed in such things, he’d say she’d done sorcery on him. But he didn’t believe in such things, and so he knew that this was something altogether different: a combustion between two opposing forces who’d somehow proven to be passionately compatible.

Her breathing, he was gratified to see, remained as unsteady as his when she said, “No for today.” Even as his lips began to curve, she brushed dust off her tunic and pants. “I have no desire to tie myself to any man—and you wish to remain free of entanglements also, yes?”

He blinked, disconcerted in a way that made no sense. “Yes,” he said, because of course it was so. “I’m not looking for a consort, but for a lover.”

“Then we’ll speak further when the time is not so inopportune.” Calm words, but her breathing remained uneven.

Titus knew she was right. But he took a moment to cross to her and raise his palm to her cheek—telegraphing his intent so she could pull back if she wished.

She didn’t.

Cradling the softness of skin he wanted to kiss inch by inch, he looked into eyes enigmatic and old and young at once and said, “It will be a fire between us, Shari.” Not a gentle one, either. “I wait to be burned.”

She reached up with the confidence of a woman who knew herself and gripped the arch of his wing, stroking down firmly. Erotic pleasure rocked his entire body, his blood molten. “Then we burn,” she whispered and dropped her hand. “Stay safe from the darkness, Titus. We have unfinished business, you and I.”

Her touch was a brand on his feathers and he half expected to see the marks of her possession when she broke contact, streaks of glittering champagne that laid claim to an archangel. “Your escort is on her way from Charisemnon’s stronghold.” Then, though worry for her gnawed in his gut, he left without further words.

* * *

* * *

Sharine watched Titus’s powerful body cut through the dawn sky, her heartbeat thunder and her skin hot. The gold of his armor turned him into a piece of the sun, the embodiment of archangelic strength. She felt a hushed quiet fall around her as his people looked on, drawn by that golden fire.

All the while, she had to fight the urge to press her fingers to her throbbing mouth. Never had she shared such a kiss. The embers smoldering inside her had burst into flame the instant his mouth touched her own, wrapping them both in wings of fire.

She’d wanted to run her hands over his muscled flesh, press her lips to the heated silk of his body, explore him with a carnal physicality that felt natural, right. As if there was nothing she could demand that he wouldn’t give . . . and nothing she wouldn’t give to assuage his hunger in turn.

Making herself turn away from the force of nature that was the Archangel of Africa, she flew back to the citadel at the highest speed she could manage. She’d just eaten a quick meal after bathing as rapidly and dressing in clean clothes when she heard the susurration of wings on her balcony.

Exiting her room, she found a slender female warrior standing in wait, her hair a deep black halo around her head, her wings a cool peach shade intermingled with threads of russet, and her skin the gold-flushed brown of a pigment Sharine had hand-mixed for her current work in progress.

The warrior’s eyes were the same brown, and acutely sharp. Lush lips provided a soft counterpoint. She was extraordinarily beautiful.

“Lady.” A deep bow. “I am Kiama. The sire has appointed me to escort you to the Northern border stronghold.”

“I thank you,” Sharine said, reaching for Titus’s mind.

When he indicated he heard her, she said, Does Kiama have the seniority to know for what I search?

She commands the border garrison, and has my full confidence and trust. His tone was resonant but distant, his attention clearly elsewhere. She withdrew at once, loath to distract him if he was dealing with one of the reborn.

Returning her attention to the young woman—though youth was a relative term when you were as old as Sharine—she said, “I go to Charisemnon’s court to search his laboratories and anywhere else he might’ve hidden information. We have evidence that he was working on an infection that could fatally injure angels.”

Kiama’s pupils flared, a burst of night against the intense and lovely brown. “I understand. Do we fly now?”

“Yes. Will we need supplies?”

“My squadron is stationed at the stronghold garrison—it’s fully stocked.”

With that, the two of them took off into the sky.

The journey wasn’t long. Given their enduring enmity, the two archangels appeared to have built their most heavily fortified fortresses across the border from each other—you couldn’t see one from the other, and neither was on the border itself, but it was a swift journey for winged beings.

As a result—and despite her long night—Sharine was in no way on the edge of exhaustion when they landed in the courtyard of Charisemnon’s former stronghold. Unlike with Titus’s citadel, this fortress, while sprawling, had no city around it. It sat in magnificent isolation in the green of the landscape.

Nature had begun its slow creep across the stone structure even in the short time since it had been abandoned. Vines spread across the roof and hung down from the eaves, and she could see that a bird had made its nest in the alcove formed by a turret window. Give it a little more time and this symbol of immortal power would be absorbed back into the landscape as if it had never existed.

Dried leaves crunched underfoot as they crossed the courtyard, and she spotted the slinking bodies of cats prowling about. From their sleek healthiness, either they were being fed—or they were making a feast of the vermin that soon infested any abandoned place.

Kiama had already arranged for one of her people to come in behind them and stand guard outside in the courtyard, just in case they needed quick assistance. “Is this a permanent post for you?” Sharine asked her, curious why Titus would sideline a warrior with such watchful eyes.

Yes, she had a faint limp, and it was obvious she’d lost weight recently, but that meant nothing to a trained fighter. Limp or not, Kiama still moved with deadly grace, and was no doubt a dervish in battle.

“No, we do one-week stretches. My squadron will then go back to fight alongside the sire while another squadron takes the chance to rest. Truly, Lady Sharine, I would’ve defied the sire himself had he tried to bury me at this post.” She indicated her leg. “As it is, a week will be just enough to recover from my injury—one of the reborn almost took off my leg.”

Sharine understood warrior pride well enough not to offer to help when Kiama went to the heavy metal doors of the stronghold. Even here, in this battle stronghold, the door wasn’t just practical—it was carved with scenes of battle, with Charisemnon in full glory. Dust fell off those carvings in a musty shower, the metal groaning as Kiama began to flip the levers to gain them access.

A curious cat, black as night, wandered over to watch as Kiama lifted the final lever. The door seemed to shake and sigh, more dust falling to coat Kiama’s hair.

Proof enough that no one had been here since Titus’s people shuttered it. It hadn’t been a long period of time in immortal terms, but this environment was unforgiving. And nature was no gentle mistress.

Kiama pushed open the left door, the painful screech of the heavy metal making the tiny hairs on Sharine’s arms quiver in warning.

The cat hissed and stalked off.

“Well,” she said, “should the reborn wish to make a dramatic entrance, now would be the time.”

Kiama, sword already in hand, spoke stiffly. “If you do not mind my impertinence, my lady, it’s too soon for such humor.”

Abashed, Sharine apologized at once, then admitted the truth. “I’m speaking out of turn because I feel a visceral fear though there is no need of it.”

Expression tight, Kiama nodded. “I helped clear this stronghold of any and all threats and I feel the same. Evil has seeped into the walls of this place. Darkness lives here.”

Such a simple, powerful statement that rang with emotion. “You saw some of it?” she asked gently.

“I was part of Charisemnon’s court two hundred years ago.” Turning her head, she spat on the external cobblestones. “It was a loyalty of my family, to serve the same archangel. My mother and my father both stayed loyal to Charisemnon even as they saw him changing and becoming something far different from the archangel to whom they’d first pledged their swords.”

“I wish you’d speak freely,” Sharine said when Kiama abruptly flattened her lips and stopped talking. “I’ve been lost from the world for many years and my knowledge of such things is limited. I will never use what you say to slander you to your family or to others.”

A careful look, the warrior weighing her up. Sharine liked Titus even more so for having another such self-assured woman in his forces. She also felt a sense of deep pride when Kiama nodded, accepting Sharine’s word . . . accepting that she had honor.

“Charisemnon was always a man who liked power, liked beauty,” the young commander said, “but things began to twist inside him at some point. He started to cross lines that shouldn’t be crossed—especially by an archangel who has power over the lives of all who look to him.”