I wrapped those wings around Charles, pulling him against my chest as celestial energy crackled through the air like contained lightning. The room hummed with otherworldly power, and I felt Charles’s sharp intake of breath as he pressed against me, his face turned up to stare at wings that shouldn’t exist.
My wings closed completely around him and I focused on Carlo’s face—white with shock and dawning terror as he understood that he wasn’t hunting a cop and a baker. He was facing something divine. Something that would burn down the world before it let harm come to the man in my arms.
And there was nowhere left for him to run.
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHARLES
The wings surrounding me pulsed with light that seemed to come from within, like captured starlight woven into living shadow. I was pressed against Eamon’s chest, his heart thundering beneath my ear, and power radiated from him in waves—something ancient and vast and utterly beyond human comprehension.
He had wings.
Eamon hadwings.
Outside our protective cocoon, I heard Carlo and the other guy shouting in what sounded like absolute terror.
“What the fuck?—”
“It’s not human! It’s not fucking human!”
“We need to get out of here! Now!”
The voices grew more distant, panicked footsteps stumbling through the debris in the cabin, then the slam of car doors and the roar of an engine. Tires spun on snow as they fled into the night, leaving behind only the echo of their terror.
Slowly, carefully, the wings began to fold back. The otherworldly light faded gradually, like a dimmer switchbeing turned down, until I could see Eamon’s face again. He looked almost human—almost, because there was still something luminous in his green eyes, something that spoke of vast spaces and timeless existence.
I stared at him, my mind completely blank. This was Eamon. The man I loved. The man who’d held me and made love to me and sung Irish ballads by firelight.
The man who apparently had wings.
“Charles,” he said softly, and his voice was different now—layered somehow, like multiple tones weaving together in impossible harmony. “I can explain?—”
The sound of sirens cut through his words, growing steadily louder as multiple vehicles climbed the mountain road toward us. Eamon’s expression shifted immediately, the otherworldly aspects of his appearance melting away until he looked like the Detective O’Rourke that Carlo’s men would remember.
“Listen to me,” he said urgently, gripping my shoulders. “Whatever happens, whatever the police ask, you don’t say anything about what happened. Please, Charles. Let me handle this.”
I nodded mutely, still too shocked to form coherent words. Wings. Eamon had wings. And light that could have powered a small city. And he’d wrapped them around me like…like a guardian angel.
Oh.
Oh.
The sirens were close now, red and blue lights flashing through the broken windows of the cabin. Eamon helped me to my feet, his touch gentle and familiar despite everything that had been revealed. “Can you walk?”
I tested my legs and found they were steadier than I’d expected. “Yeah. I think so.”
“Good. We need to go outside before they come in. Make this look like we’re cooperating victims, not suspects.”
We picked our way through the destroyed living room—furniture overturned, windows shattered, bullet holes in the walls—encountering one of Carlo’s men. He was on his stomach in the hallway, grunting in pain as he clutched his knee, which was a bloody mess.
I blew out a breath as we passed him, then greedily sucked in the crisp mountain air as we stepped outside. Three sheriff’s department vehicles were pulling up, their lights painting the snow in alternating red and blue.
A tall man in a sheriff’s uniform approached us, his hand resting casually on his weapon but not drawing it. Professional caution without immediate threat assessment.
“Detective O’Rourke?” he called out.
“That’s me,” Eamon replied, pulling out his badge. Even after everything, the gesture looked completely natural.
