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.
Sharine had been delighted by the gift and the missive—and she had kept up the practice. Even Tanicia had remarked on her accuracy. She was no warrior, but she was accurate enough to teach a certain archangel a lesson about assuming anything when it came to Sharine. “This is fine,” she said, leaving the knife strapped to her thigh, where she’d discovered she liked wearing it.
Walking to the central doors, she stepped out onto the edge of the central courtyard and into the warmth of morning. It had been cool inside the citadel, likely because of the stone with which it had been built, heavy and solid. Outside, the colors were shades of sun-gold and working brown, along with a pop of lush green from the fresh produce on a large cart.
A small specialized vehicle being operated by a young woman was in the process of ferrying the loaded cart toward what Sharine assumed were the kitchens. She’d seen such vehicles in New York, too, lifting pallets out of trucks, but couldn’t recall their name just now.
Most of the courtyard was open space, to be used by Titus’s warriors and other staff, and likely as the central location for the legendary parties Tanicia had mentioned Titus was known to throw in better times. But one corner housed the stables, and there were also a number of trees planted to the left, creating a shady haven where tired people sat down to rest and sleek cats prowled up for pets.
Motion was constant, angelic warriors landing or taking off while vampire—and possibly mortal—warriors drove in and out in rugged vehicles such as used by some of her own people. Each and every one of the fighters going out into the field bristled with weapons, from swords to unidentifiable modern devices.
The last time she’d been in a place this active, it had been Raphael’s Tower.
Conscious of Titus’s muscled bulk beside her, she went to ask him of the progress of the reborn eradication, when a female angel with dark red hair and two-toned wings—dark gray atop and white underneath—landed to Titus’s right. “Sire,” she said with a bow. “Lady Hummingbird.”
“This is my troop-trainer, Tanae,” Titus said, but his attention was obviously on the warrior. “What has occurred?”
“I received a report of a nest we might’ve missed inside the perimeter and went to check—the creatures were hiding in an abandoned grain cellar.”
Titus hissed out a breath. “How many?”
“Ten. I took a squadron with me and we were able to clear the cellar. But, sire, the creatures appeared to have sent one of their kind out as bait. I believe they wanted us to spot it, their intent to launch a deadly ambush.”
11
“I didn’t know the reborn were so intelligent,” Sharine said, stunned at the idea the flesh-eating beings were able to think and plan to such a high degree.