Page 17 of Even Angels fall
No, really, nothing could have prepared me for the man in front of me.
Earlier today, I called Emmanuël a mountain. I take that back.
The man in front of me is the mountain.
It’s not specifically how he looks that makes me think that, but the air around him.
He feels like the world would bow before him, and the prickle I have at the back of my neck tells me I should be bowing. I should be on my knees for this man.
Stop.
Not the right time for my dirty mind to take over.
I tilt my chin up to take a good look at the man. I’m not small for a woman, especially knowing I change into a small bird. I’m 1,76 meters and yet, I still have to tilt my head to see the two gold lights that the man has for eyes. They’re mesmerizing. So is the cut of his angular jaw, that is covered in stubble, and the almost white hair that he sports slightly too long to pass for a military haircut. The sides are almost as short as my hair, but the top looks luscious and shiny, and I close my fists at my sides to prevent myself from reaching for them.
Yes, I need to get a grip.
Me drooling over him—whoever he is—can’t be the first thing he remembers of me.
I try to avert my eyes but end up looking at his chest. His very naked chest, covered in tattoos. I have no clue what they mean, but I can’t take my eyes off them. They look like they hug every curve and angle of his muscles, and I wonder if they continue under the leather belt and the jeans that he wears.
I’d like to let my fingers glide under the rough fabric and feel if the skin is raised where the ink has been drawn.
Stop, Angélique. Get your head out of the gutter. You’re not here to fantasize.
I gulp when I see that the man hasn’t stopped looking at me.
Then douchebag vulture number whatever forcefully sticks a piece of paper to the man’s chest.
“Michaël sends his regards. Sadly, he couldn’t be here today.”
Sadly. I almost snort at the word.
“And for fuck’s sake, put on a damn shirt. We don’t need an exhibition.”
“Why would I deprive the world of the sight of perfection?” he asks with a cocky smirk.
“Fucking dragons and their egos,” I hear the other vulture mutter behind me.
My head snaps forward, or more specifically, to just above his shoulders.
That’s when I finally see them.
His wings.
They’re almost as black as the night. The skin is taut over angular bones that make the frame of the wings. They look like rougher and bigger versions of bat wings.
Except for the tips.
Up in the air, the tips of his wings aren’t just tips, they’re talons, and from where I stand, I can see how sharp they are.
Who needs weapons when your own body is one?
The man grabs the paper that douchebag vulture is still holding to his chest, and without letting his eyes stray from mine, he blows on the paper.
Instead of air, it’s fire that leaves his lips.
That’s the moment my brain chooses to function again, and two things hit me at once.
