Chapter 21
The late morningsun did little to warm the icy air in the kitchen—more precisely, the one emitting off hismate.
Dagan set his empty mug on the table. A smile tugged his mouth as he watched Shae. He found he enjoyed being with her when she had her meals. Just because he didn’t eat, didn’t mean his mate had to take her repastsalone.
But the ire coming from her held all the threat of several swords about to pierce him in the heart. Nope, she wasn’t happy withhim.
But she had to learn that she couldn’t put her life at risk like she’d done two nights ago by not following his orders. Anger and fear resurged when he remembered the demon, Luka, trapping her in the alley with his blood-demons closebehind.
And the damn kiss. He’d almost blown everything apart and killed the bastard rightthere.
Her chair scraped back on the marble tiles. Shae rose, carrying her cereal bowl and glass to the sink. She rinsed her dishes then packed them in thedishwasher.
Dagan strolled over and left his mug in the sink. Before she stalked off, he grasped her hand. “I’ll be clearing my old workshop during the morning, then training with Blaéz later this afternoon if you needme.”
She already knew his schedule for the day, but he wanted to get a reaction out ofher.
Aaand,did he getone.
“I don’t think I’ll be looking for you much today,thanks.”
With that caustic parting shot, she marched out, leaving behind a trail of frostyair.
Yeah, he’d asked for that, he thought wryly, rubbing hisjaw…
A few minutes past two, Dagan headed for the massive training arena in the basement. As he jogged down, he grimaced, gingerly pressing his side. The wound still hurt like hell. With his healing abilities almost flatlining, he couldn’t afford to sustain any more injures. Michael would surely bench his ass for as long as the damn wound took to heal. But he needed to train and keep physically fit since he was draining psychically,too.
In the empty arena, he selected a sword. At a shimmer in the air, he spun and barely missed decapitation at the deadly obsidian blade winging past his head. Considering whom he partnered this afternoon, not paying attention was asking fortrouble.
The Celt had a masochistic streak a mile wide and appeared to be in a mood—summoning that damn Gaian weapon without cause was like reaching into your body and pulling out arib.
Blaéz grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Mating has made yousoft.”
Dagan snorted and lunged at him. Blaéz countered with cold cunning deliberation, reminding Dagan of a time when the warrior hadn’t been in possession of his soul. Dagan didn’t let emotions crowd him either. Next on his to-do list: get rid of the Fallen after his mate, find the bastard who’d killed Shae’s father and if he got ahold of Samael along the way, he’d take pleasure in annihilating thescourge.
Soon, the fierce clashing of steel reverberated off the walls. Time passed, and still, they fought. Long, hard, andbrutally…
“Blaéz?”
At the soft, feminine voice, he spun toward the door instead of blocking the strike. Dagan’s sword rammed him in the side. The Celt stumbled back, a curse flying free, but it didn’t stop him from striding to hismate.
“Blaéz!” she gasped, darting across to him, fear darkening hereyes.
“Dammit, Darci—” he growled. “I told you, this place is off-limits.”
Before she saw her mate’s blood coating his sword, Dagan headed to the opposite side of the arena and got out a cleaning cloth from the shelf. Despite their low voices, he could clearly hear theirconversation.
“You walked away before we finished talking. I gave you time to cool off.Youdidn’t comeback.”
“What’s there to talk about?” His tone terse, Blaéz pulled off his shirt, revealing the vicious scars crisscrossing his back, a horrific reminder of his brutal imprisonment in Tartarus. He wiped his face and chest. The place where Dagan had accidentally pierced him already healing. “You don’t want to get married,fine.”
Darci snorted. “The way you sayfine, it sure is. Look, all I said was two weeks is too little time to prepare for a wedding. Maybe early next year—April?”
“December…the firstweekend.”
“But that’s just under four weeks,” she protested. Then a sigh drifted out of her. “Okay.”
His good mood apparently restored, his obsidian sword settled on his biceps. “Sumerian,” he called as he ushered his mate out. “Rematch.Tomorrow.”
