I look up from my notebook to see people running—families abandoning their picnics on the grass, couples dropping hands to sprint away from the center of the plaza. Phones are out everywhere, filming something behind me. The pigeons explode into flight, their wings beating frantically as they flee whatever’s spooked everyone. Even the elderly man feeding ducks has abandoned his bench, breadcrumbs scattered across the brickwalkway as he hobbles toward the safety of the surrounding buildings. What the?—
I turn around and my brain short-circuits.
A man is descending from the cloudless blue sky above the fountain.
Not rappelling. Not on wires.Flying.Huge black wings spread wide, beating against the air with a sound like thunder, sending ripples across the fountain’s surface and making the nearby magnolia branches sway violently. His chest is bare, muscles rippling with each powerful wingbeat, a torn hood barely covering his head to accommodate those massive wings that block out the sun.
He lands in the center of the square with an impact that cracks the old bricks beneath his feet, arms spread wide like he’s claiming the entire world as his stage. The fountain behind him seems to pulse higher, as if responding to his presence, water droplets catching the late afternoon light and creating a backdrop of liquid fire.
“Mortals, behold!” His voice booms across the plaza, rich and commanding and absolutely insane. “Your god is here among you!”
I should run. Every rational brain cell I possess is screaming at me to get the hell out of here. But I can’t move. I’m frozen, transfixed, caught between terror and the strangest sense of recognition.
I was just praying for something—anything—to happen. And here’s a literal answer falling from the sky.
“Your god seeks a consort!” he continues, still grinning like he’s having the time of his life. “Volunteers may line up now before me and bow down so that I may choose amongst you!”
Security guards appear from behind the brick buildings that ring the square, their radios crackling with panicked chatter. Summer uniforms already dark with sweat, tasers drawn, theyform a loose circle around the winged man. “Get down on the ground! Now!” Their voices echo off the historic facades of the shops and cafés that have watched over this square for over a century.
The winged man just laughs—actually laughs, the sound rolling across the cobblestones like music—and raises his hands. White-blue electricity arcs between his fingers, crackling with power that makes the hair on my arms stand up and sends the café’s striped umbrellas snapping in an impossible wind.
One guard fires his taser. The electricity from the man’s hands deflects the prongs like they’re nothing and travels back up the wires, frying the weapon and sending the guard convulsing to the brick walkway.
The air itself seems to hum with energy now. Street lamps flicker on despite the daylight. The fountain’s water starts glowing faintly blue.
Holy shit. This is really happening.
The rest of the security detail flees, along with every other person in the plaza. Every person except me, sitting alone at my little café table like an island in a sea of abandoned purses, dropped ice cream cones melting on the hot bricks, and overturned strollers. The pigeons have returned, strutting around the empty square like they own it now. Because apparently I have a death wish. Or maybe I’m just so starved for adventure that I’ll take it even if it comes with a side of potential murder.
The summer air has gone still and charged, like the moment before lightning strikes. Even the fountain has stopped gurgling, as if the whole world is holding its breath.
The winged man’s eyes scan the empty square—past the abandoned café tables with their fluttering umbrellas, over the scattered breadcrumbs and forgotten shopping bags—and land on me.
Time stops.
The late afternoon sun creates a halo around him, making his dark hair gleam and throwing his sharp features into stark relief. He’s beautiful in a completely terrifying way, like a storm made flesh. Those massive wings fold against his back, and I can see the play of muscle beneath bronze skin, the confident way he holds himself like he’s never met an obstacle he couldn’t destroy. There’s something wild about him, untamed, like he’s never followed a rule in his life and never will.
The air between us shimmers with heat and that strange electricity, making everything feel hyperreal—the rough texture of the wrought-iron table under my palms, the distant smell of magnolias now mixed with ozone, the way my heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat.
For one insane moment, I think about my diary entry. About wanting to feel desired, worshipped, claimed by someone who can’t get enough of me.
This man looks like he could be that someone.
On pure impulse—the same impulse that got me into trouble with Michael, that made me stay too long, hope too hard, believe too much—I raise my hand.
His grin widens, and he starts walking toward me across the cracked bricks, each step deliberate and predatory. The fountain behind him pulses brighter with each footfall, and I swear I can feel the ground vibrating beneath my chair.
Oh fuck. What am I doing? What have I done?
I drop my hand, but it’s too late. His sights are set, his path decided. The summer air crackles around us, and somewhere in the distance, I hear sirens wailing—the real cavalry finally coming. But they’re too far away, and he’s too close, and the space between us is shrinking with every heartbeat.
This is either the best decision of my life or the last one I’ll ever make.
TWO
LAUREN
He comes straighttoward me across the cracked bricks, and holy shit, the man is a walking wet dream.
