XXVI

I placed my hand in his, and our surroundings washed away. The roof of his apartment building towered over New York City with a breathtaking view of the skyline at night. I expected the cold air to be freezing all the way up here in November, but the temperature was the same as inside, and there was no wind.

"Why isn't it cold?" I asked, turning away from the view.

"It's the ward." Death reached down and picked up a rubber doorstop. He flung it high into the sky, and it ricocheted off an invisible dome—the "ward," as he'd put it—that made itself visible with electric blue fissures that stretched down to the edges of the roof. "It acts as an insulator. I put it up a few years ago when I bought the building. It notifies me when anyone unwelcome tries to breach the barrier."

My thoughts snagged on bought the building . I couldn't fathom how much it had cost to purchase all the open space below us. If he'd acquired it legally, of course . . .

Death inclined two gloved fingers to himself.

With my heart in my throat, I strode closer, an innate warning of danger licking up my spine.

"Stop right there," he commanded.

I glanced up at the sky and laughed. "Is a piano going to drop on my head or something?"

Death grabbed the back of his long-sleeved shirt and pulled it over his head.

He might as well have dropped a piano on me because I was deceased.

I took in his herculean frame. His broad shoulders, powerful arms, and outrageously defined abdominals. He tossed his silky shirt on the ground like a model in the middle of a photo shoot and stood in a relaxed way. Intricate black markings covered his torso and drifted into his sweatpants. The sweatpants hung low on his hips, and now I was picturing yanking them down a little further . . .

"I will remind you," Death said in an alluring, velvety voice, "that allowing you to view my wings is equivalent to showing you my . . . well, my dick . See, angels rarely expose their wings for long periods of time, especially as a demonstration. It can be considered a grand display of intimacy." Then he looked meaningfully at me, as though seeking permission for what could happen next.

"How are your wings even remotely comparable to the male genitalia?" I wondered with a coy smile. "Do they have testicles at the end of each feather?"

"Say that last part again." His eyes darkened to a sultrier deep-green, crackling the tension between us. "Slower."

"In your dreams."

"They're comparable because of their impressive size," Death answered. "At least, in my case. I suffer terribly from TBDS."

"TBDS?"

"Too Big Dick Syndrome."

My mouth fell open.

Death barked out laughter. "Priceless. Don't worry, cupcake." He gave me a slow, deliberate once-over. "I'll make sure it feels good."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "What makes you so certain I'll give it up to you?"

"I'll arrange my long list of reasons and get back to you. The first one is the most obvious though: your incessant flirting."

"You're the one who's always staring at me with your freaky cat eyes."

"See, now that's hurtful. And flirtatious."

I punched his powerful arm, and he released a hearty laugh, which in turn made me laugh too. When our laughter faded, there was a shift in the air. We looked at each other with such intensity that everything else washed away.

"Show me," I said.

I could see the vulnerability in him as he stepped back. He lowered his gaze as he pivoted, showing me his broad back.

My hand crept up to cup my mouth. Two violent, jagged scars marred either side of his spine. The gruesome remnants of a pain unlike any other, tombstones where wings had once been embedded. Beneath inky markings and bronze skin lay the bone structure of another species. His shoulder blades protruded out a little at the bottom, like . . .

"Don't come any closer," Death said.

Confusion knit my brows. I thought maybe he was self-conscious of his scars. That he didn't have wings after all because he was a Fallen. But then his skin darkened, ink slinking over his bronze skin until he was one with the night.

"Angels are built differently than humans." His voice had morphed from man to monster, deepening to a low, primal husk that sent chills down my spine. "Our bones are larger, stronger, though less dense than a mortal's, so it's easier to take flight. Some angels were once mortals that died, others are purebloods born from other angels."

"How did you become an angel?" I wondered.

He went quiet for a short time, hesitating. "A long time ago, shortly after I became a creature of death, the Elders in Heaven took notice of my . . . bad behavior. They knew they couldn't destroy me, not without disturbing the balance between good and evil, but they wanted to keep me close, utilize my death power and my gift of seeing into souls to help the afterlife. When I agreed to this, they transformed me into a Light Angel with magic. If you can imagine it, I once helped guard the Gates of Heaven, determining which souls could enter."

"Holy crap."

"The job didn't last long," Death said in a grave voice. "They banished me, tore off my wings, then cursed me with the Seven Deadly Sins curse. To limit my capabilities. Or, at least, to try to." He turned his head over his shoulder with a sly smile. "All angels, including Fallen, are reborn with eternal wings, which we conceal with magic."

Lightning fractured the sky. Death's head tilted heavenward as he flexed back his arms, and enormous wings unfurled from his back. They extended in seconds, until they reached nearly half the width of the entire roof.

"Whoa! You weren't kidding, these are huge !"

Death's laughter rumbled like the thunder above. "Thank you."

My jaw gaped as I analyzed the rows and rows of midnight feathers. "Incredible . . . "

"Feel free to get a closer look." His wings fluttered as though to shake out a cramp before curling inward with the arch of a vulture.

My eyes followed the line of his wing to his lower shoulder, where the crease of the wing ended. Death dropped to his knees so that he faced away from me. While this gave me a better view, it also made my heart hammer in my chest to have such a powerful being kneeling for me. Again .

My fingers hovered over the base of the wing. His wings shifted, bending in a way that reminded me of a demonstration in my high school anatomy class. My teacher had stood beside a model of the human skeleton and bent his own arm alongside it, pointing at the various bones underneath his skin.

"Humerus bones," I said in awe, following the bone that attached from Death's back to the thick extension of his wing. "The anatomy of your wings is nearly identical to human arms?"

"Correct," he said. When my finger brushed one of the silky feathers, his wings flinched reflexively and contracted marginally. Careful . "Someone paid attention in anatomy."

"I'm a nerd," I admitted.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he said, eying me sideways. "Besides, being a nerd means you struggle less to keep up with my extreme intellect."

"Always humble."

He spent the next few minutes explaining the musculature of his wings and their ligaments and joints. He angled his right wing closer in my direction. I felt like I was in anatomy class all over again, except this time, the sexiest man on the planet was teaching it.

"What about the connection to your body?" I wondered as my attention slid over his back. I wanted to run my hands across the thick cords of muscle there.

"A scapula sits on either side of my spine, and sockets are connected to the arms."

Coldness built in my core as I thought of the V-shaped scar on his back. "So when an angel becomes a Fallen . . . "

"Two of my limbs were essentially torn from my body," he confirmed through tight teeth. I wanted to understand the purpose of Heaven ripping off his wings, but the stiffness in his shoulders and his overall body language told me to back off.

"Do you mind if I feel them?" A flush crept up my face. "Or is that . . . too sexual?"

His husky laugh rolled out like a purr at the back of his throat. "You can do whatever you want to me, Faith, but know my wings are sensitive in certain areas. My alulae are extremely ticklish."

"Your what ?"

"Feathers," he muttered. "They're feathers. Be gentle. Don't do anything weird, like pluck out a quill."

"There goes my shot at an authentic calligraphy pen aesthetic."

My fingers brushed the soft feathers directly on either side of his spine. An energy, a power that I could only describe as ancient coursed throughout me like hot oil, and my mouth parted. Death must have felt it too because he tensed.

"Those are called scapulars. Down feathers, essentially."

My arm spread up and out until it extended to a different shape of feather along the top of his wing. "And these?"

He shuddered. "Marginal coverts."

I lowered my hand, and gooseflesh burst across my skin. Death turned curiously over his shoulder, and our eyes locked. Beneath the light of the moon, his vertical pupils were dilated.

"Secondaries." The low rasp to his voice beckoned me closer. My touch affected him, and that gave me a strange sense of empowerment.

I ducked beneath his wings so that I was now in front of them. From this angle, Death wouldn't have to crane his neck to look at me as I explored his wings.

"I want to see the layers from this side," I explained with a shy smile.

He said nothing. Only watched me with a perfectly composed face. My fingers trailed over the bottom of his feathers.

"Primaries."

I raised my fingers higher, stroking the length of the longest feathers of his wings. This act no longer felt innocent. His wings weren't just feathers and bones and joints: they were a part him, a part he hid from the rest of the world. Death closed his eyes, his jaw pulsing as he slowly tilted his head away from me.

"Primary coverts . . . " He released a ragged breath. "Faith. Careful—"

I brushed the top right, and suddenly his wings jerked and sliced inward, launching him six feet into the air. I lurched back and ducked, although I wasn't low enough, and my hand instinctively lifted toward him. A sharp pain carved across my hand like a knife before I yelped and pulled it back, cradling it to my chest. The wings came back, as wings naturally did when they flapped, the sheer force of their power hurling wind into my body and knocking me hard to the ground. Good thing too, or those lethal things could have lopped my head off.

Death planted his heavy boots on the roof, his wings curling inward. "You alive?"

"By the grace of God !" I screeched. "What was the hell was that?"

He shrugged. "Reflex."

"A flinch is a reflex. That was a full-on attempt at a wing bitch slap!"

Death laughed hysterically, and I mean hysterically . The booming sound made my ears feel hot as I glared up at him. "You almost cut me in half!"

"Shhhh." Grinning, he offered a gloved hand to help me to my feet, and I took it, but not before flipping him off first.

I checked off all my body parts and then peered down at my sliced hand. My fingers trembled as blood oozed from the deep gash. Don't cry . Don't cry . Don't cry .

Death prowled closer, shadows dripping off of his wings and pooling across the ground as he walked. "You're hurt."

"It's a scratch," I said in my best tough-girl voice.

Lowering to the ground, Death sat back on the balls of his feet. He raised a gloved hand and motioned me closer. "Doesn't smell like a scratch. Let me see it."

My heart pounded. I approached him cautiously, my gaze sliding down the length of his deadly wings as they tucked in neatly behind him.

He was another version of Death, his inner beast showing through with unnaturally sharp, demonic features and glaringly catlike mismatched eyes. Seeing him like this, crouched and monstrous, staring unflinchingly at me, was frightening. And a little thrilling.

"You're going to need a big bandage for that scratch ." When he touched me, my whole body burned to life. His leather-covered fingers held the sides of my hand as he inspected the wound. "Try to heal yourself."

"I don't know how," I said. "Can't you fix me?"

"You need to know how to survive on your own, Faith. I won't always be around to protect you."

I caught the strange lilt in his voice. "Why are you saying that?"

He rose to his full height. "My wings grew back," he said, rather than answer my question. "It was a slow and excruciating process, but that pain was nothing in comparison to the day Heaven damned me to the human realm. I was alone, in an unfamiliar era, with no connections to the humans. I had to adapt to survive. It's not always going to be the best-case scenario. Sometimes, it'll be the worst. You must be prepared for the worst."

I looked down at my hand in his to find the wound already healed.

"Time to go," Death said, his voice bitter. His wings dissipated into shadow, then into nothing. "I've made you late for your date with the warlock."