Guilty as Sin (48 page)

man
‟
s face in his huge hands, looming close enough for a kiss. Michael stiffened,

glaring.

“What do you want?” said Dax, low and intense. “Not what you think you should

have or what you think might work. What do you
really
want?”

“That
‟
s easy.” Michael
‟
s slashing grin didn
‟
t touch his eyes, but he was trembling.

“I want my fucking life back.” Gripping Dax
‟
s wrists, he wrenched himself away.

“Hey.” Dax caught him when he staggered. “Veil-it, you really do look like shit.

Come and eat something.”

He ushered Michael into the tent, looping back the flaps so the afternoon sun

poured in untrammelled. Even though she knew what Dax had been doing these last

weary weeks, Lise
‟
s jaw dropped.

Michael stopped as if he
‟
d run into a wall, one hand coming up in a warding

gesture.

A perfect act of love.

Every length of silk, every cushion, bolster and rug glowed in welcome, the

primitive splendor of the clashing colors exactly as it had been in Michael
‟
s room above

Ma
‟
s shop. The gods knew how many trips it had taken Dax to ferry everything out

here.

Shaking her head in wonder, Lise caught a glimpse of Michael
‟
s face and her knees

buckled.

For a split second, an expression of such naked agony flashed across his features

that it slammed into her chest like a battering ram, stealing her breath. And then, while

225

she was still reeling, it vanished, his face smoothing into a mask as stony as the cliffs

that surrounded them.

“Very clever,” he said through pale lips. “Kidnapped in comfort.”

“There
‟
s soup here somewhere,” muttered Dax, rummaging through a large

wooden crate. “I
‟
ll warm it up.”

Michael folded up, staring as he sank down into a pile of pillows. “
Warm it
—?”

Coming up with a wide-mouthed earthenware bottle, Dax grinned in triumph. “I

like my creature comforts. Brought a brazier.”

“Bread and cheese will do,” Michael said faintly.

Dax
harrumphed
, but he produced both the requested items. As he handed them

over, he said, “Eat first then sleep.” He shot the other man a quizzical look. “I can heat

water for washing, or there
‟
s the pool if you fancy freezing. Tomorrow we
‟
ll talk.”

“Fuck no.” The bread crumbled in Michael
‟
s restless fingers. “We talk now.

Twister
‟
s balls, what the hell do you think you
‟
re going to do with me?”

Lise settled next to him, snatching up a small cushion to hold so she wouldn
‟
t be

tempted to reach out and touch his tired face. “Love you,” she said, not giving herself

time to reconsider. “The way we want to, the way you deserve to be loved.”

“I see.” She got a nasty smile. “Going to fuck me into submission, is that it?”

“Can
‟
t say I
‟
m averse to the idea,” growled Dax, grinning.

226

Aetherii—Society and Customs—Mating:

Aetherii are capable of mating on the wing. A true Aetherii Mating Flight is, however,

another matter entirely, requiring absolute love and trust from both participants. It signifies a

lifelong commitment. Only the Aetherii are privy to the actual details of the rite.

Excerpt from the
Great Encyclopedia
, compiled by Miriliel the Burnished.

* * * * *

Michael rolled his eyes, but before he could open his mouth to say something

cutting, Lise laid a hand on his arm. “Show some sense,” she said. “What you need

right now is sleep.”

He shrugged her off. “You
‟
re not my mother.”

By all the gods, was that a pout? Lise couldn
‟
t help it—she chuckled. “I should hope

not. But I
‟
m right.” She rose. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Dax stood with one hand braced on the center pole, gazing down at the other man,

his auburn brows drawn together. As always, his face reflected his essential good

nature, but the look in his eyes! Utterly intent, and so very very hungry. Rip the Veil.

Hot chills danced up and down Lise
‟
s spine, brushed clever fingers between her thighs.

When she snagged Dax
‟
s elbow, he started. “Huh?”

“Give the man some space, love.” As she led Dax out of the tent, Lise
‟
s spirits lifted.

How could she have forgotten the sweet, stubborn core of the man? She hadn
‟
t stood a

chance. Poor Michael, he didn
‟
t either.

* * * * *

“Mmm.” A full-body stretch felt rib-crackingly good. Twister, he hadn
‟
t slept so

well since…since…

Ah, shit.

His heart thumping, Michael
‟
s eyes shot wide open.

A coverlet of shining gray feathers over him, a layer of bronze silk beneath. Lise
‟
s

head on his shoulder, his arm thrown across Dax
‟
s magnificent chest.

Thank all the gods, he was still fully clothed, though someone had removed his

boots and his weapons. He wouldn
‟
t think about the fact that he
‟
d slept like a baby

while they did it. He must have been more exhausted than he knew.

227

Michael extricated himself, eliciting no more than a snuffle from Lise and a grunt

from Dax. A reluctant smile tugged his lips. What a delicious irony—his law-abiding

Aetherii, all worn out by nefarious deeds, kidnapping no less. Or would they call it a

citizen
‟
s arrest?

His gaze fell on a brightly patterned rug and his heart twisted in his breast. Gods,

they
‟
d gone to some trouble! All for him.

Depression swept over him, a great dark shadow. He couldn
‟
t see any way out of it

except to hurt them, but better a quick cut now than a full-blown disaster later. They

had each other. They
‟
d get over him quickly enough.

He slipped out into the open air and came to a dead halt, staring out over the folds

of valley and mountain. By the Twister, what a view! As he strolled toward the pool,

sunshine slid over his skin like a warm balm, the grass thick and cool under his bare

feet. Even the goddess daisies bounced back after he trod on them, though he did his

best to avoid their cheerful little faces. Circling the pool, he found a sheltered spot

where the sun spilled over a rock shaped roughly like an armchair. The water looked

golden brown, but it was so clean he could see the stony bottom. Just as well, he

reflected as he stripped. Slum kids didn
‟
t learn to swim.

Even lapping his knees, the pool was cold enough to force a curse out of him, his

genitals trying to climb right inside his body, but fuck, he felt grimy. Gritting his teeth,

Michael sucked in a huge breath and launched himself forward before he could second

guess himself.

He surfaced in a great splashing flurry, gasping with shock, all the breath knocked

out of him. As he blundered back toward the rock, a voice said, “Here,” and a large

square of toweling appeared in his vision.

He glanced up.

Fully dressed, Lise sat on the armchair rock, the morning sun making a molten

silver glory of her hair and wings. To his surprise, she showed no trace of amusement at

his predicament, only her usual focused calm.

Without a word, Michael hauled himself out of the water and wrapped himself in

the bathsheet. He secured the nubby fabric around his waist, slipped his shirt on

without doing it up and turned his back on her, sitting with his face tilted toward the

sun.

Lise didn
‟
t speak, and slowly, the sun warmed his chilled flesh. To one city bred,

the quiet was as loud as a shout. The breeze rustled in the candlewoods, the stream

gurgled over the rocks. As the silence spread deeper into his soul, Michael heard a

distant trill—presumably a bird of some kind—while nameless insects buzzed in the

bushes. Behind him, Lise breathed, soft and regular. Unconsciously, he found himself

listening for the sound of that precious rhythm until he was matching his breath with

hers, staring out unseeing at the mountains that marched majestically into the distance.

All his life, he
‟
d fought and scrabbled and won, at first simply to survive and later

just because he could. But now—he blinked as the cliff face opposite blurred in the

228

strangest way—for the first time, he had a principle truly worth fighting for, and he was

so close to victory, he could taste it, bittersweet pain on his tongue. Three days wasn
‟
t

that long. In any case, he was clean out of options.

His lips twisted as he gazed out over the valley floor hundreds of feet below. There

were no miracles available—certainly not one capable of growing him the wings to fly

away, back to Valaressa or Feolin. He would always be what he was, a Grounded, and a

thief by circumstance and inclination. Dark and twisted and cunning and
wrong
.

Air slid across the back of his neck as Lise stirred near him, goose flesh rising on his

ribs and chest. He checked the knot on the towel.

He
‟
d told himself that running was the single unselfish act of his life, a noble

sacrifice hard-won, but he knew now he
‟
d been wrong. That was part of it, for certain,

but Michael of Sere had never believed in sugar-coating the truth, not even to himself.

He
‟
d been salving his guilt, attempting to atone for Tannio. Fuck it all to the seven

icy hells, he mustn
‟
t—
couldn’t
—make the same mistake again.

Gods, he was a coward, nothing more, nothing less. Because if he had to watch Lise

and Dax destroyed—as they inevitably would be—it would kill him. He closed his eyes,

deliberately recalling the endless hours it had taken Tannio to die, torturing himself

with the vividness of the memories—the sounds that had started as full-throated groans

and dwindled to exhausted, mewling gasps, the stink of blood and vomit and pain-

sweat. His own helplessness and horror.

He shuddered, thinking of the scar on the back of Lise
‟
s hand. Every time he saw it,

the memory of her pain made the bile rise in his throat. Nonetheless, his Aetherii

weren
‟
t anything like Tannio. They might not die screaming. Maybe. Intellectually, he

knew the fear wasn
‟
t rational, but he couldn
‟
t shake its icy grip.

By the Twister, he thought grimly, there was more than one way to die. What of the

death of hope, or of family?

Perhaps Tannio had been the lucky one, with his single night of agony. Because

there
‟
d be years of it for Lise and Dax, slights from friends and colleagues, Jan
‟
s

disapproval. What the fuck were they thinking? Had they thought at all? Considered

how a Grounded would drag them down to the dirt? They
‟
d never truly soar again,

clean and beautiful and strong, never return to the Eyrie, to family and community and

culture. He thought of the word pictures Dax had painted, of the wonder and grace of

the aerial city, and shivered, even though the sun had long since dried his skin. He
‟
d

never see it.

Something grazed his thigh. The tip of Lise
‟
s tail. When had she curled it around

him?
Soft
, he thought.
Pretty.
He reached down to brush it away, but the moment his

fingers sank into the silken tuft, temptation whispered in his ear.
These are the last

moments
, it said.
Savor them, idiot. Make a memory
.

Five minutes. He could take five minutes to watch the rising sun paint the cliffs and

rocks with an extravagance of gold and rose while he put himself back together and

shored up his defenses. His fingers moved, stroking, running the long plumes between

229

forefinger and thumb, knowing instinctively what would feel good, how to spread the

featheroil and work it well in.

He set his jaw. Lise and Dax didn
‟
t stand a chance, not against his will.

As sweetly as a child, Lise leaned in to rest her cheek against the apple of his

shoulder, her skin warm through the linen of his shirt, the soft gusts of her breath

making him tremble. Michael clamped his lips shut and they sat in silence, watching the

bright morning assemble the folds and slopes into a sunny landscape.

He wasn
‟
t aware of the passage of time, or of the fact he
‟
d closed his eyes to bask.

He blinked when Dax said cheerfully, “
Roberry
‟
s brewed and I
‟
ve got pastries and fresh

gaeta
fruit.”

Lise sighed and straightened, leaving her chosen spot on Michael
‟
s shoulder to

grow sad and chill.

Bare-chested and bare-footed, Dax set his hands on his hips, casually magnificent.

The sun sparked deep-green flashes in the metallic bronze of his plumage. He scanned

Michael from head to toe, his expression growing dark. “You
‟
ve lost weight.”

“So?” Bundling up his trews, Michael hitched up the towel and stalked back to the

tent.

“You need to take care of what
‟
s ours.” Dax
‟
s voice was deep and very sure.

Michael whirled. “
Yours?
” Words strangled in his throat. “Fuck, what gives you

the—?”

“The right?” Dax
‟
s jaw bunched, his wings mantling in a furious curtain of bronze.

Lise put a restraining hand on his arm, though her tail lashed. “We love you,

Michael,” she said, her gray gaze so intent it bored holes in his hide. “And the evidence

indicates you feel the same way about us.”

Michael grabbed the nearest
roberry
mug, took a reckless swig and scalded his