Strained.
Absolutely wrecked.
I step back, my chest heaving, my entire body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion and something else I'm not ready to name.
He's staring at me.
Not moving.
Just staring.
"You are extraordinary," he says quietly.
"I'm sweaty and exhausted and probably bruised in places I didn't know could bruise."
"You are extraordinary," he repeats. "And my operatives are going to beterrifiedof you."
I laugh.
It's breathless and shaky and completely genuine.
"Good," I say. "They should be."
We don't talk on the way back to the penthouse.
We just walk.
Side by side.
His frame radiating heat.
My compact body still trembling with residual adrenaline.
When we reach the penthouse, he doesn't stop in the living room.
Doesn't head to the kitchen.
He walks straight to the bedroom, his wings shifting slightly as he moves.
I follow.
Because at this point, I'd follow him anywhere.
He sits on the edge of the bed, his frame making the furniture look almost delicate.
And then he reaches out, his hands settling on my waist, and pulls me into his lap.
I go willingly.
Straddling his thighs, my hands resting on his shoulders, my forehead dropping to rest against his.
His wings unfold.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Wrapping around us like a velvet vault, blocking out the world, creating a sanctuary of obsidian feathers and soft gold light.
