Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 609(@200wpm)___ 487(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Smoke pounced out from the open door of Venom’s empty office at that very instant.
Aodhan’s frown vanished, his face creasing into a huge smile; he hadn’t realized Illium had dropped her off on this floor today. That, or Smoke had been catching the elevator again.
He had a sudden thought.
Head jerking toward Honor, he stared. “Why do you know about what’s in the fan club?”
The hunter, who was dressed in sleeveless black leathers today, her dark hair pulled severely back, a gun strapped to her thigh and a couple of blades in arm sheaths, said, “I spy to make sure there are no dangerous loonies.”
Crouching down to pet Smoke, she added, “I’m not interested in the ordinary folk—mortal and vampire and I’m pretty sure a few disguised angels—who are just starstruck. I mean I get it—my husband is hot.” A grin. “And the rest of you clean up okay, don’t they, Smoke?”
Gathering Smoke up into her arms, she rose. “My focus is on the ones who are obsessed to a level where they think Dmitri is their husband and Galen is sending them dreams every night. They need watching. Because no psycho is going to hurt any of you on my watch.”
Aodhan knew fragments of Honor’s history, enough to understand that this generous and vibrant member of the Tower could comprehend his scars better than most. It was an awful, terrible bond he wished they didn’t share. “Thank you.” He touched the back of his hand to hers, saw her pupils flare, vivid black against green so deep, it was a quiet forest pool. “I’m working on the touch thing.”
Her smile was gentle and maternal in a way that reached deep into his heart. In strict terms, Honor was a baby in comparison to his age. She’d been a mortal of less than three decades when she’d become a vampire, was nowhere near even the halfway point to official angelic adulthood.
Yet the hunter had a sense of age to her that was at times a heaviness in Aodhan’s bones akin to what he felt around much older angels. As if Honor had lived entire lifetimes before he’d ever met her.
“You’ll make it,” she said today, and it was a simple statement. “You’ll never be who you once were, but what’s wrong with that?” A shrug. “Change is a constant. Survivors adapt and thrive.”
Her words lingered in his mind as they parted ways. She was right. Even if he hadn’t been abducted, he would no longer be the youth he’d been at the time. That was an impossibility.
Survivors adapt and thrive.
Survivor was a label he’d railed against, because it implied the horrors done to him. But today, in Honor’s eyes, he’d seen that he could own it, both what had been done to him, and what had followed—what he’d done, what he’d become, all the love that had surrounded him.
Coming on top of his emotional catharsis in Illium’s arms, Honor’s statement settled inside him, downy feathers coming to a gentle landing in spaces within that had opened up after centuries of silence.
Well, wow. I can see why people have written literal odes to your smile.
He paused on the balcony, the wind pushing at his hair. He had it all at once, why he hadn’t liked Céline despite her charm and artistic spirit. When Honor had said those admiring words, it had been with teasing affection and genuine delight and absolutely zero desire to possess.
A friend who’d been happy to see him shine.
Céline, on the other hand…it had been there, in the eyes behind the mask. An avaricious glitter. She’d wanted him, but not in the healthy way a person attracted to him might want him. He’d experienced the latter over the years, more so since his shift from the Refuge to New York. Other angels as well as senior vampires had been open in their desire for his company.
“I figured why not try my luck,” one had said after approaching him. “I’d kick myself if I never asked and you might’ve said yes.” A smile. “So how about it? Coffee date?”
He’d felt awkward to be on the receiving end of such invitations, but had never reacted with a visceral dislike—and at least three of those same people had ended up becoming trusted colleagues. It had been different with Céline. Where the others had looked at him with genuine attraction and even flustered desire, Céline’s gaze had held the clawing want of a being who wished to put him in a box and keep him for herself.
A wash of air, powerful wings closing next to him as Raphael landed on the balcony. The sire was wearing faded leathers of dark gray, had a streak of dust on his cheek and a rapidly healing cut on his jaw.
“Aodhan,” he said. “I could see your scowl all the way from the stratosphere.”