On good days, he nursed a five-year gap in his memory. He craved the fuzzy edges of his recollection. It was how he kept his anger with Emma in check. The urge to throttle her for being so reckless simmered below his skin. He could have lost her. Regret churned. He’d lost her anyway.
“I’m heading out.” This oasis Emma had carved out of the city’s heart boasted a small garden. It wasn’t much, but even two extra steps in either direction would help ground him.
“Okay.” Dillon stood. “Let’s go.”
Harper’s skull ached, shoulders burning where his wings were hidden. “I’d rather go alone.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’ll be in the garden.” He shrugged. “I need to stretch my wings for a while.”
“You get a half hour. After that, I’m coming for you.” Dillon folded his arms across his chest. “You’re a target in this city. Remember it’s not just the mine and the colony at risk. It’s you too. You control distribution. Nobles won’t like that. Raiders already don’t like it.”
He was right. “I know.” Harper opened the door, then slid through it, careful not to wake boarders in the adjoining rooms. He’d counted seven males and one female at dinner. Emma had a full house and expected a mated pair’s return. He spotted her bedroom turned office and picked up his pace. Too late, her fresh scent teased his nose. Four long strides later, he reached the back door, shoved through it and inhaled deeply of the night. Spice from the nearby markets stung his nose. The familiar smell and sounds of horses carried. Over everything, he all but tasted Emma.
“Definitely Hell.” He shivered as his glamour dropped. His wings flexed, stretching kinks from long-denied freedom. Rolling his neck, muscles loosed and bones popped.
“I don’t know.” Emma’s laughter carried on the breeze. “I kind of like it here.”
He spun around and found her sitting on a low chair beside the door with bone needles in hand, a basket of wool at her ankle, knitting. The better part of a throw covered her legs as she worked at the topmost corner. Tightness gripped his skin, stretching his wings out of shape.
“Have a seat.” She gestured toward the seat against the opposite wall with her chin.
“No.” He tried to turn away, but couldn’t. “I came out for a walk.”
She glanced at her hands. “Suit yourself.” Her needles resumed clacking.
She paused to shove hair behind her shoulder. It sprang back, curling under her breastbone. Lines scrunched between her eyes, and her head tilted back and forth as she worked.
“You knit.” Fascination drew him closer. Her calm rhythm soothed his frayed nerves.
“I picked up the habit in the colony.” She shrugged. “It keeps my hands and my head occupied. I’ve done it off and on, made things for Maddie. Now it kind of fills the void, I guess.”
“What you said up there…” he cleared his throat, “…you meant it?”
Her hands slowed. “I kicked the caffeine habit, quit cold turkey once I left Earth.”
“That’s good.” He swallowed sweet relief.
“And in case you’re wondering, I haven’t picked up any new ones.” She pushed a strand of yarn aside. “Well, except this, and it doesn’t count. This is more of a rededication.”
“Fair enough.” He turned away, shook out his wings, stretching until they stung. Glamour was an illusion, but it was a tangible illusion. When he altered his appearance, tucked his wings out of sight, they were plastered to his spine, trapped in a magical cocoon that itched and burned.
Emma gasped. “What happened?” Seconds later, hot hands smoothed down his back.
Every inch of him tingled at her touch. Color drenched his wings, turning their dusky carmine to vibrant crimson. No hiding his arousal in his natural form. He shouldn’t have dropped his glamour. He still didn’t know what she was fussing about— “Damn it.” She poked a finger below his wing joint and pain crashed over him in agonizing waves. “Could you not do that?”
She caught his arm, wheeling him around to face her as she snarled, “Has anyone checked your back?” Her fingers tightened. “Were you in that mine when it exploded?”
“No, I was outside.” His back had been burned, hadn’t it? The pain hadn’t registered until she mentioned it. His wounds weren’t life-threatening, so he blocked it like everything else. The men in the mines mattered. The lone survivor of the caravan required their healer. He didn’t.
“Males.” She didn’t ask permission, just shoved him onto her lounge face-first. Expert hands spread his wings one at a time as delicate fingers inspected every leathered inch. He pushed up when her hands deserted him, but she shoved him down as if he were a child. He’d forgotten how strong she was. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he surrendered to her whims.
The same gentle hands returned, stroking every inch of his back, working over every muscle, pausing to pick debris from his cuts. “You know you’ll get infected if you let something like this go untreated.” She jabbed a nail deep in his shoulder blade, and he grunted. “Those mines are a case of wing rot waiting to happen. Don’t you have a healer?”
“We have two in training,” he defended, “but they were needed elsewhere.”
“Good grief. They were needed here.” She stabbed his hip for emphasis. “Don’t move.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The lounge smelled of Emma. He buried his face in the pillow, and a stray hair tickled his nose. Sleep weighted his limbs, and his eyes closed for a moment.
“This is going to burn.” A second later, she slathered icy ointment across his back.
He shivered. Let it burn. This was one pain too delicious to block. Emma’s hands on him, nursing him like she had a thousand times when his protection of Maddie earned him lashes from her father’s whip. Archer had been so consumed with desire for Maddie, he assumed Harper shared the same twisted lust and punished him for her affection. He hadn’t suspected Harper craved only one female, or that Archer’s halfling daughter was the one true light in Harper’s life.
His eyes closed again, and this time he left them shut. If someone had told him he would long for the days of their enslavement, he would have called that person a fool.
Yet here he lay, wishing for a simpler time when his body was a tool to be used, his thoughts dictated by cruel circumstance, but his heart was free. And it had belonged to Emma.
Five years made no difference to him. This year apart made even less. Ten or a hundred more wouldn’t change the sick ache in his bones craving her long-ago touch. He couldn’t love her openly then, either. But she knew she was his. Just as he knew he would always be hers.
Cat Scratch Fever
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