Tiny lines formed between her eyebrows. “Do you think of me as food?” It was a snarl.

“No.” Muscles easing, he rubbed his nose over hers. “If I bite you, it’ll be in play. And if I eat you up, it’ll be because I have my tongue in your—”

She slammed her hand over his mouth.

*   *   *

Pulse racing, Andromeda looked into the eyes of the feral, beautiful creature who was shattering every barrier she’d created in an effort to live a life of honor and discipline where she didn’t only use, but created and gave. He was so pure, with a core of primal honesty that drew her like a moth to a flame. She knew that she’d never again meet anyone like Naasir, not even should she live to be ten thousand years old.

Part of her wanted to accept his invitation, to be with him, to hoard the memories against what was to come. She was bound to serve in Charisemnon’s court for five hundred years, and knowing her grandfather, those five hundred years would be one horror after another. Surely, whispered the desperation in her, surely she could have Naasir for just a little while?

And what happens when you join Charisemnon’s court?

The cold reminder was a slap. The idea of Naasir hating her or himself after they’d been so painfully intimate, it made her feel as if she was spun glass that would break with a single wrong touch. “Remember my vow,” she said after removing her hand from over his mouth, her voice husky with all the emotions she couldn’t set free.

His expression turned icily serious without warning. “If you were mine, I wouldn’t let you rut with others.”

She didn’t know if that was a threat or a promise.

Pushing off her, he rose to his feet before she could decide how to respond. A single tug when he offered her his hand and he pulled her to her feet. “Tell me about your stupid Grimoire book.”

Stomach tight, she blew out a breath. “You can’t find it.” Her eyes burned because she wanted him to find it, even if it wouldn’t change anything.

“I can find anything.” His confidence was arrogant but in a way that made her want to kiss him. “How big is it? Where was it last seen?”

“That’s just it,” she confessed. “It hasn’t been seen in the past hundred thousand years or more—before that, there are mentions of it in old stories that might as well be myths.” That was the reason she’d chosen it as her escape key. To ensure the door would remain permanently locked.

Naasir scowled. “It’s not a real thing?”

“No, it is.” Just of incalculable age. “Caliane is actually responsible for the most reputable report of its existence. Long before she was an Ancient, she made a casual note of it in a letter to a friend.” Somehow, that eons-old letter had survived and was kept in a special part of the Archives.

“Where did she see it?”

“In the house of an alchemist.” At a time when even angels had believed in such things. “The alchemist is long dead, the city he lived in no longer exists, and scholars have spent thousands of years trying to track down the fabled Star Grimoire without success.”

“Tell me all about it,” he demanded again.

Stupidly happy at his stubborn determination, she gave in. “It’s a book on fantastical creatures and hidden mysteries meant to have been written by an angel so long ago that her name has been lost from the Archives. Within its pages are said to be illustrations of utmost beauty hand-painted by the angel’s most beloved concubine.”

“What does it look like?”

“Leather bound, with a golden clasp.” A frustratingly incomplete description. “No one ever seems to want to describe its physical appearance, just what apparently lies within.”

Naasir looked at her so intently that she knew he wanted more. So she gave him more, and as she did, she learned that he liked listening to her tell stories of times long gone. He wasn’t bored by the history she held in her head and quite often said something that made her look at things in a whole new light.

Yes, she would never forget Naasir. Not so long as she drew breath.

20

Elena walked into Raphael’s Tower office to find the Primary there instead of her archangel. The leader of the Legion was staring at a screen that showed Jessamy’s face. “Oh, sorry.” She began to back out.

“Wait, Ellie,” Jessamy called out as the Primary turned to pin her with those eerie, beautiful eyes, translucent but for the ring of mountain blue around the irises.

“Consort.” His greeting was toneless, but all at once, she could hear seven hundred and seventy-seven voices whispering to her.

Braced for it, she nodded. “Hello.”

The voices receded. Thank God. After a few hiccups, the Legion had come to understand that, unlike Raphael, she couldn’t hold all their voices in her head. They’d also started to learn that she saw them as individuals, not a single entity. Whether they’d take that on board themselves was an unanswered question.

“Have you had contact with Amanat?” she asked, coming to stand beside the Primary.

Jessamy’s soft brown eyes filled with sympathy. “Keir is there now. He says Suyin has fallen into anshara and it’s for the best—the repeated wing excisions without enough time to truly heal in between had a cumulative effect.”

Elena couldn’t imagine the horror the other woman had survived. “None of Jason’s people have made contact with Naasir,” she told Jessamy, conscious the Historian had a deep bond with the silver-haired member of the Seven.