I mean, wow.Wow.He’s really tall—like, crane-your-neck-to-make-eye-contact tall—and those are alotof muscles. The kind of muscles you see in movies and think, “Nobody actually looks like that in real life.” Bronze skin stretched over what has to be eight feet of pure masculinity, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who’s never doubted his place in the world for a single second.
My brain scrambles to catch up with reality. This is not happening. This cannot be happening. I do not have supernatural hotties dropping out of the sky to claim me. I’m Lauren fucking Martinez—I get ghosted by guys on dating apps, not swept away by literal gods.
I shake my head frantically, and when that doesn’t seem to deter him, I lift my hands in the universal “stop” gesture, waving them like I’m directing traffic. “Whoa! Whoa, there, big guy. Sorry, that was just a momentary impulse move. Classic me,making terrible decisions. Just go on to the next person, okay? There’s gotta be someone way more qualified for... whatever this is.”
He just grins wider, and Jesus Christ, that smile should come with a warning label. “You are a beautiful female,” he says, voice rolling over me like warm honey. “You will be a prize consort.”
Consort? Um, can I call backsies on the hand-raising thing?
But seriously, what’s this guy really gonna do—just pick me up and fly away with me? I mean,ha. Sure, he’s got muscles for days, but I’m not exactly a delicate flower here. I’m what my mother charitably calls “sturdy” and what my ex less charitably called “too much woman.” Plus, whatever jetpack or Hollywood magic trick he used to get here surely won’t work a second time.
Because I don’tactuallybelieve he’s a god. Do I?
But up close, with the late afternoon sun hitting him at this angle, I can see his wings in perfect detail. They’re not prosthetics or some elaborate costume piece. They move with his breathing, the black feathers catching the light, and I can see exactly where they emerge from his back—where his shoulder blades should be, there’s this seamless transition from skin to wing like he was born this way.
They look... real.Disturbinglyreal.
“I choose this female for my consort!” he announces loudly, projecting his voice to the scattered onlookers filming from behind cars and building corners. Then he reaches down for me with hands the size of dinner plates.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I protest as he effortlessly hefts me to my feet like I’m made of feathers. Damn, he’s shockingly strong. Before I can blink, he bends down and scoops me up bridal-style—one arm under my knees, one beneath my back—and I’m suddenly cradled against the most magnificent chest in the history of chests.
I yelp as my entire worldview gets rearranged. This man just picked me up like I weigh nothing.Nothing.Do you understand how revolutionary this is? Michael used to grunt when he had to help me off the couch. My mother constantly reminds me that I need to “lose twenty pounds if I ever want a man to carry me over the threshold.”
And here’s this gorgeous stranger treating me like I’m precious cargo.
My arms scramble around his neck as I feel his feet leave the ground—actually leave the ground, what the fuck—and my stomach drops into my shoes. “Wait, wait, are you real? Like actually real real, not special-effects real?”
He nods, that wild grin spreading across his face like sunrise. “As real and as close to a god as this world knows.”
We’re rising now. Actually rising. The ground is getting farther away and my brain is having a complete and total meltdown.
“Will you hurt me?” The question tumbles out of me, desperate and raw. Because let’s be honest—I have terrible judgment when it comes to men. What if this is just another Michael situation, except with wings and the ability to drop me from a great height?
For the first time, that wild grin falls from his face, and something like genuine concern crosses his features. “Consorts are sacred,” he says, voice going serious in a way that makes my chest tight. “No one must ever hurt a consort. Ever.”
He leans in closer, and I blink like an idiot because oh god, he’s even more devastating up close. The hood was shading his face before, but now I can see everything—the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the way his dark hair falls across his forehead. He’s handsome in that dangerous, otherworldly way that makes smart women do stupid things.
His intense, stormy gray eyes lock onto mine, and I feel pinned in place like a butterfly in a collector’s case. “I will never hurt you,” he says, and something in his voice makes me believe him completely.
Shouting erupts from the other end of the plaza—harsh voices and radio static—and both our heads swing toward the sound. Police cars are flooding the square like ants, officers spilling out with weapons drawn and bullhorns crackling to life.
“Our courtship comes to an end, beautiful consort,” he says, and there’s something almost regretful in his tone.
“What does that mean? What courtship? I didn’t agree to any?—”
There’s no time to finish my question because before I’ve even taken another breath, he bends his knees slightly and then rockets us straight up into the air like we’re shot out of a cannon.
I scream. And scream and scream and cling to his neck so tight I have to be cutting off his circulation, but I don’t care because we are FLYING and this is NOT NORMAL and my brain cannot process what’s happening right now.
His arms just tighten around my curves—my actual curves, not trying to minimize them or pretend they don’t exist—as we rise faster than any human-made aircraft could ever accomplish. Those massive wings come to life around us, beating with a rhythm I can feel in my bones, cutting through the air with impossible grace.
Oh my god, this is real. This is actually happening.
My heart isn’t just in my throat anymore—it’s bypassed that completely and taken up residence in my mouth because we’re accelerating so fast the world below is becoming a blur. A low, thrumming blue light erupts around us like we’re wrapped in electric silk, breaking some of the freezing wind resistance and making my skin tingle.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my face against his chest, which is warm and solid and smells like thunderstorms and something wild I can’t identify. His heartbeat is steady against my cheek, completely calm while mine is trying to beat its way out of my ribcage.
Wasn’t this exactly what I was wishing for twenty minutes ago? Adventure? A man who would look at me like I’m the only woman in the world? Someone to sweep me off my feet—literally, as it turns out?
