Reynner pulled off his tee and tossed it on a bench. Aerén’s gaze honed in on the scar on Reynner’s left pec. He said nothing, but compassion flickered in his light eyes.
Irritation surged. He should have kept the damn shirt on. He didn’t want anyone to see his branding of shame, a moment of weakness that had changed his life and left him with an eight-point star on his chest, proof of a randy goddess’s ownership.
He’d been forced to reveal the truth when Aerén had come across him several months ago where he’d chained himself to the dungeon wall, out of his mind in pain. The only way he wouldn’t break free and give into Inanna when she summoned him by way of the mark on his chest. The pain she inflected was the price he paid for ignoring her calls.
“Don’t waste your pity on me. I deserve what I got.”
“To be owned by a whore goddess?”
“A lesson well learned—never trust a female, never promise anything. Now, are you joining me?”
Exhaling roughly, Aerén nodded and flashed out from the gym.
Reynner rolled his shoulders. Loosening the tight muscles of his back, he released his wings. A grunt of relief escaped him. The rustle of feathers caused a light breeze to sweep across the gym. His image in the windowpane reflected the cream-tipped and bronze color of his extremities. Keeping them hidden while in the mortal realm was a pain in the ass, but immortals could never call attention to themselves. Besides, he didn’t care to have his wings on display. And even more, he hated them being touched.
Glancing away, he set the treadmill for an uphill run. Not an easy thing, running with a six-foot wingspan behind him, but he needed the work out, to exhaust his mind and dull his endless pain.
“Why do you think I cannot protect myself?” Aerén asked, reappearing in a shimmer near the free weights, wearing gray sweats and a t-shirt. “I can so easily overcome any adversity.”
As if to prove his point, his body started to glow. The hairs on Reynner’s arms rose at the staticity—as if all the fiery energy in the realm had condensed inside Aerén and was minutes from releasing a deadly electrical storm.
Shit! A miss, and he could bring down this mountainside. With a flick of his hand, Reynner obstructed the flare with a psychic block. “Rein in that godsdamn power. I happen to like my house where it is,” he growled. “Dammit, Aerén, you’re a bloody prince, one I’ve sworn to protect. Just stay here—you’ll be safe.”
“Safe?” Anger darkened Aerén’s face. “You mean keep the spare heir safe, ready to take Daén’s place if anything happens to him. Is that what you think I want?”
“It’s not a matter of want, it’s a must. You are the carrier of all that is light. It’s in your blood. You know this. Empyrea will be restored to what it once was, and youwillgo back.”
In response, Aerén stormed out to the balcony and dematerialized.
That went well.
Inhaling an annoyed breath, Reynner tried to empty his mind of his problems while he ran, the power of each footfall adding to the burn in his thighs.
He focused his attention on the frothy white waters of the roaring falls, but it did little to ease him. He dashed the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. Still, his edginess didn’t ease as thoughts ofherpersisted. His mind couldn’t let go, couldn’t rid itself of the damn peach scent that seemed to have settled inside him. Or forget how her warm, feminine form felt against his. His body heated, his groin hardened.
Shit!He scaled over the handlebars of the treadmill and sprinted out onto the edge of the balcony. Retracting his wings, Reynner dove in a free fall into the churning, icy waters of the plunge pool far below.
***
A while later, Reynner left his room, coat in one hand and his cell phone in the other. If the female from the club was really the one they all were looking for, he had to find her fast, before the Darkreans did. They wanted rule of Empyrea, and they would do anything to get their hands on her. At the thought of those emotionless bastards taking her, his stomach knotted.
No! She meant nothing to him except as a device to be used in his search.
Scowling, he headed for the stairs leading to a well-lit circular foyer. His phone beeped. He glanced at the display and frowned at the reminder.
David’s opening. Artist Inc. Gallery. DON’T BE LATE!
What the hell—this wasn’t his phone.
Reynner backtracked to the last time he’d used his cell…the previous evening in the club. His heart kicked up a notch.
This washercell. Their phones must have gotten switched when they crashed into each other, a meeting he’d orchestrated. He checked her voice messages.
An annoyed female snapped,“Eve, where the hell are you? I called you several times today!”
“Eve,” he breathed her name.
Finally, something worked in his favor. He scrolled through her messages, a clear invasion of her privacy—like that’d stop him—and opened an unread text from David.
