She ran her fingers through the soft hair at his nape. “Love me so much you were willing to destroy a city for me. A thousand times over.”
He pulled back, scanning her eyes, nothing but the deepest love and most ardent affection in his own. “I’d end the entire world if I thought I was going to lose you again.”
She snickered. “A very responsible stance for an Emperor.”
“How’s this for responsible?” He stood from his chair, threw her over his shoulder and smacked her ass. “I know we should be resting, but I think I might keep you up for another hour or four.”
After he’d lugged her out of the war committee room, he kept his promise. Had her up for more like five hours that night, making up for their lost time.
And as they drifted off to sleep, clutched sweaty and spent and satisfied in each other’s arms, Cassandra couldn’t help but think that the best version of this world would include a lot more trusting people like Tristan.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
The wind off Lake Phaeban ruffled through Tristan’s feathers as he shook the hand of a gray-winged, brown-eyed male atop a hill overlooking Delos.
“I can’t thank you enough for the support, Erik. Or should I call you High Councilor Zephyrus now?”
Erik cringed. “High Gods, please don’t.” Cael had abdicated the position to his younger brother, though nothing would be official until a seated Emperor decreed it. “Father would be rolling over in his grave. If he had one.” Erik dipped his chin and snickered, but Tristan detected a layer of pain beneath the mirth. Surely not for Arran. Probably for all those who’d lost their lives during the Stoneridge wedding massacre. “Anyway—” Erik perked up and gestured toward a tight formation of lethal warriors with membranous wings in shades of black, brown, and gray “—a horde of Brachian soldiers. As requested, Your Highness.”
“High Gods, please don’t.”
The two males shared a laugh.
Layla Fetar strode up, her black-and-white hair braided away from her face and her leathers polished to a gleam as sharp asher knives. She bowed to Tristan. “The last winged rebel unit has just arrived via cuff, Highness. We go on your command.”
Tristan nodded. “Thanks, Layla.”
The curvy, deadly honey badger bi-form strutted down the hill, and Erik’s head nearly swiveled off his neck. “Who wasthat?”
Tristan smirked. “Nothing you can handle, lordling.”
Erik pulled at the lapel of his uniform. “Hey, I’m a High Councilor now. Or will be as soon as you swear me in.”
“You just balked at the title.”
Erik clapped a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, his gaze still devouring Layla’s ass. “I’m not opposed to throwing it around for a good cause.”
“She won’t be impressed by it.”
Erik ambled toward his warriors, throwing a two-fingered salute over his shoulder. “Never say never.”
Tristan watched him go, then swept his gaze across the rebellion’s aerial army. In addition to the Teles Chrysos themselves, official units from both Cernodas and Akti had joined.
Tristan clomped through the wet grass, seeking out his Council.
Ronin, decked out in a midnight-blue battle uniform with the sleeves rolled up to expose his ice-blue tattoos, was frowning beneath his eye patch as he assessed the assembled forces. Judging the lines, or missing Mireille already?
Seraavi, Hella, Trophonios, and Layla were rallying the troops, giving last minute pep-talks.
Cael and Signys were up in the sky, scouting.
Cassandra stood alone at the edge of the field, pensive. And looking so fucking gorgeous and powerful in her opalescent leather armor that Tristan wanted to bellowshe’s mineacross the field. Her warhammer rested at her feet.
They weren’t planning to use it. Not unless things got really dire. But he hoped the weapon would scare off anyone stupid enough to tangle with her. Especially since she couldn’t fly yet.
He stepped up behind her, tugging on the end of her tousled braid. “What are you thinking about?”
She turned, worry pinching her features. “I don’t know, Birdman, I just… I have this unsettled feeling. Like today is going to go horribly, horribly wrong.”
