Angels' Flight(81)

Galen flinched inwardly, but Dmitri was right on both counts. “I’ll make sure no one reaches her.” Whether she welcomed his protection or not.





4


Sunset was whispering on the horizon when he returned to Jessamy, a small bag of her things in hand. “My aerie,” he suggested, “would be the safest place for you.” The openness of her current surroundings made the back of his neck itch.

Shaking her head, however, she said, “Alia has already offered me a room.”

“She has a child.” He’d glimpsed the toys scattered on the roof, where a curious young angel might choose to play.

Comprehension ran swift and dark across Jessamy’s face, infiltrated the deep brown of her eyes. “Yes, of course. I would never put a child in harm’s way.”

“Adults are fair game?”

She sucked in a breath, holding a fisted hand to her abdomen. “You really believe there will be another attempt on my life?” It was couched as a question, but he knew she was already aware of the probable answer. Her next words confirmed it. “There’s a small room in the library equipped with a bed. I can stay there.”

He gave a curt nod. “Very well.”

Jessamy didn’t trust Galen’s immediate agreement, but he didn’t push at her to change her mind as he escorted her back to the library, a silent, battle-ready presence by her side. His gaze took in every tiny element of their surroundings until his protective watchfulness was a pulse against her skin.

“See,” she said when they reached the room in the library, her chest tight, as if her breath had been stolen, “no large windows and only one door.” No one would be able to get to her once she bolted that door from the inside.

Giving a silent nod after checking the walls to ensure their thickness and stability, he allowed her to close the door behind him. Trembling, she collapsed on the narrow bed meant for scholars who wanted to find a little rest. It had to be the lingering shock of the attack, she thought. She was too old and too sensible to react with this strange mix of fear and exhilaration because of a man. Especially a man who had left her all but blind with anger not long ago.

Relieved at the explanation, she picked up a book from the table beside the bed, opened it to the first page. It was but a fraction of a moment later that she heard the scuff of Galen’s boot as he shifted outside and belatedly realized he intended to stay at her door through the night. Because that was the only way to protect anyone in this room—the library had too many exits and entrances for him to keep watch at any other location.

She knew he’d come to no harm. He was an angel. A powerful one, regardless of his age—some angels never grew in power after reaching adulthood, while others, like Jessamy, gained it incrementally. Galen, by contrast, was one of those who was escalating in huge surges, part of the reason he made such a good candidate to be weapons-master for an archangel—a night on his feet without sleep would cost him nothing. Yet guilt twisted inside of her, a hard-edged blade. He’d saved her life, bled for her, and she was being childish about sharing his living quarters, where he could rest easier, because she had never lived with a man in any sense.

More than two millennia, and she had allowed no male so close.

It hadn’t been a choice at the start. It had simply happened. She’d been shy and self-conscious about her misshapen wing, had hidden herself in the library. Later, when she’d gained enough confidence in her abilities to walk taller, she had been approached. There hadn’t been many of course, but there had been enough that she’d had more than a single option.

At the time, young and still unbearably sensitive about her wing in spite of her outward confidence, she’d believed the men had asked her out of pity, that each would play the part of a kind suitor only long enough to assuage his conscience. So she’d repudiated them before they could do the same to her.

She knew she’d been right about the motivations of at least one of those who had attempted to court her. But the others… perhaps she had been wrong. But one thing was indisputable—it had soon become “known” that Jessamy preferred her peace, that she was a scholar and a teacher. Everyone had forgotten she was also a woman, with hopes and dreams of a mate, a family, a home that wasn’t always so silent when night fell in a soft hush. She’d tried very hard to forget the truth herself because it hurt so much less.

“I thought you had more courage than that, Jessamy.”

Her nails cut into her palms. Hating her life at that moment, a life she’d built brick by brick, until she’d entombed herself in it, she stood, picked up the little bag Galen had packed with her things—such an unexpected, bewildering thing for him to do—and pulled the door open. “Your home,” she said, before her courage deserted her, “would be easier to guard?”

Galen gave a small nod, the pure red of his hair sliding over his forehead before he shoved it back with an impatient hand. “It’s on the wall of the gorge. One entrance. No steps.”

So she would have to permit him to fly her down in his arms.

Continuing to watch her, Galen added, “It’s not far,” the wild sea of his eyes telling her he saw too much. “A heartbeat or two of flight.”

Sweat broke out along her spine and she had to swallow twice before she could get the words out in a husky rasp. “All right.”