Page 101 of Touch

Except this distracts them. As the males fight to safeguard Love, the god with slanted brows tilts his arrow toward the mortal who threatens their existence.

But if Andrew means to die protecting Love, he has another thing coming. If they must revolt, they will do it as one. Side by side. Together. Like mates, if only for this moment.

The god shoots. With a cry of fury, Love blasts through. Speeding her way toward Andrew, she swoops into the line of fire and spins midair to face the rulers. Wings flapping wildly around her, she lets her weapon fly.

Two arrows launch forth and meet in a detonation of bloodred light. Andrew’s body cannons backward. The blast uproots Love next, hurling her into the sky, her wings twisting and tangling.

Andrew bellows her name. A peeling sensation pries a scream from her lungs, as if someone is sawing a blade through her vertebrae, gravity pulling her down. Feathers explode, scatter, and rain to the ground.

34

Snow falls. It lands on her body, gently covering her in a dusting of frost.

All is deathly quiet, silence and darkness engulfing Love. With her eyes welded shut, her consciousness stirs in and out of a nightmare. The blurred edges of fallen bodies are strewn around the forest, amid flashes of blood and broken archery.

That is all she manages to decipher. Yet before falling into another stupor, Love perceives one other thing.

A touch.

Fingers brush aside her hair, stroke her face, and caress her broken wings. The contact eases the throb in her temple, the cuts slicing across her flesh, and the gaps where feathers have been torn off. When those soft hands reach a bald spot that makes her whimper in pain, a voice murmurs, soothing her.

Arms slip beneath Love’s weight and scoop her off the ground. She hangs limply, her shredded wings drooping, the few remaining plumes dragging across the snow. The savior nestles her against his solid chest, where a strong heartbeat pounds. Lips press into the crown of her head, breathing against her.

She senses them moving, traveling across the woods. The figure stumbles under the weight of her lifeless wings, but he never loses his grip on Love, his embrace tightening protectively.

Love knows his touch. She recognizes these arms, those lips, those hands. And she had been right. He is more powerfulthan any deity. Because in the aftermath of battle, this mortal is the only one left standing.

35

Her eyelids crack open. The cottage takes shape, from the plush furnishings to the brimming hearth. Beyond the glass walls, a pink glow lathers the sky, its hue indicating dawn.

The thirteenth day.

Her body feels strange—some parts fatigued and weighed down, other areas weightless. Rolling onto her side makes Love wince. Her feet feel especially odd, as if there’s no blood flowing there until she wiggles them, which boosts the circulation.

Love rises on her elbows. She gapes at the bandage encircling her hand and wrist. The distress intensifies when she bends her knuckles and encounters resistance.

More than that, the weight on her back has vanished. Worse, she does not feel the plumes encased under her flesh. In a panic, Love wraps her arms around herself, frantically searching for feathers and discovering two scar lines encrusting her shoulder blades, as though someone has extracted her wings.

Loss grips her chest, the sense of amputation unbearable. A whimper slips from her mouth, but then a bulky weight stirs beside her, emitting the scents of cedarwood and eucalyptus.

“Andrew,” she breathes, whirling around.

She remembers him carrying her through the woods. He must have brought them here and tucked her in, but now he’s passed out and as naked as she is. His body trembles, and sweat beads from his neck. Yet he’s alive. Uttering a broken noise, Lovebrushes the hair from his forehead, then yanks her fingers back in shock. His skin feels demanding, the surface reminding her of singed coals.

He should be with his mate. Or he should be dead.

Voices drift from outside. Love grabs a blanket and wraps the material around her bare skin, then rushes out of the cottage. She stops short, arrested by the biting presence of the cold. The blizzard is over, but a few feet from her door, a high wall of snow dominates the forest.

It makes little impression on her guests. Blood, gashes, and contusions cover their flesh and stain their torn clothing. Idling beneath an umbrella of evergreens, the four archers round on her, scarred from combat and irritable.

All except for Envy. “Look who’s awake and doing the eternal walk of shame,” he croons, ignoring Anger’s burning glare and admiring Love’s exposed thighs.

“What happened?” she gasps. “Where’s The Court?”

“Hush, my former conquest. Pace yourself.”

“You need more rest.” Wonder, who almost let Andrew die, who waited until the last instant to help, has the decency to drop her gaze from Love. “How do you feel?”

---