His jaw tightened, the only indication he was in pain. “It’s nothing. Do not trouble yourself.”
“Did something happen?” I demanded, grateful for the distraction from my own pain.
His eyes fluttered closed, as if he was thinking. When he opened them again, resolve shone in his eyes. “Seraphim have few weaknesses,” he began. “We are stronger, faster than humans. We sense more. But…we are weakened by saltwater.”
I frowned.
“Any saltwater, even human tears, burns our skin.”
I stared, horrified at the thought I had harmed him. “How quickly will you heal?”
He smiled faintly. “Soon. We heal faster. And a few teardrops are nothing, cirra.”
“I’m sorry,” I offered, wishing I could do more.
But Castiel shrugged. “It’s nothing.”
Guilt tugged at me, and I tried to think of something that would make it better. “Here,” I said, pointing. “You’re still wearing the cloak. Let me take it off.”
He stood in one graceful movement, stepping closer and allowing me to touch him.
The cloak had bunched up around his nape and seams had ripped in some places from when he flew with me to the church. He didn’t seem to have noticed, so I quietly took the cloak off and folded it, setting it on the edge of the bed. I didn’t want him to feel bad about that.
With the cloak removed I could see his wings. The brown looked less bronze in the dim light of the room, but still rich with undertones. The feathers look cramped, some of the vanes twisted and bent over one another.
“I didn’t realize the cloak would do this,” I said, latching on to the topic with force. “I’m sorry.” I reached up and put a hand on the part of his folded left wing I could reach. He stilled beneath my touch.
Fourteen
Lilith
Rapt, I buried my fingers in some of his long feathers. They were softer than silk, so thick and luxurious my eyes fluttered closed and I exhaled loudly.
Castiel made an odd noise in the back of his throat, though he didn’t move out my grasp.
It jerked me back to the present. I pulled my hand away, flushing again. “I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t touch.” His words from earlier came back to me. Why do you let them touch you?
It did bother me, I was slowly realizing, and I didn’t want to do that to Castiel.
But Castiel unfolded that left wing, stretching it out in one glorious arc, and a few of the vanes caught in the candlelight. I didn’t think I’d ever get tired of the sight. He maneuvered to the edge of the bed beside me, then turned until his wing draped across my lap.
I couldn’t breathe. It felt so unbearably intimate, but I couldn’t pull back. I didn’t want to.
“If you wish, you can comb them straight again,” he murmured, voice husky. Those words in that deep, gravelly tone made my core throb with need, and I clenched my thighs together. His wings shifted under the movement, and I stared in fascination.
“Are you sure?” My voice was a whisper.
“Please,” he ground out.
Hesitantly, I lay my hands near the bottom of his wing, where the primary feathers were largest and longest. His wing trembled beneath my palms. Castiel’s back was rigid, and he faced squarely away from me so I couldn’t see his expression. But somehow, through the growing thickness in the air, I knew he wanted this, perhaps yearned for this even more than I did.
I ran my fingers through the primaries, combing and straightening and smoothing each feather. My heart finally slowed to a relaxed, contented pace as I worked up his wing, growing more confident the longer he let me touch him.
At one point his neck dropped forward and he sighed, the sound of utter contentment filling the air—and making my insides squirm. He was so different from any other man I knew, and not merely because of his wings. He laughed, he teased, he watched, he spoke honestly. Castiel was not some remote, emotionally distant man who wielded his power without care. He was warm and sweet, protective and gentle. His laugh made me laugh—something I’d never imagined doing with a man.
I was in danger. I’d never truly fallen for a man before, and of course it would be my luck to become smitten with the one I couldn’t have. Castiel would want one of his own kind—who wouldn’t? He was trying to get home, and wouldn’t want the weight of a human interfering with his plans.
My hands inched close and closer to the beginning of his wings. The skin underneath the layers of feathers was smooth and fine. I could feel powerful tendons rippling with muscles beneath, impossibly thin yet strong enough to cut through windstorms. I didn’t want it to be over. Touching him was the best part of the day—of the year. My own muscles relaxed as I stroked his feathers. Eventually, though, I couldn’t put it off. One hand clasped the curved crest of the wing, feeling the silky feathers grow tighter together, smaller, and slicker.
