Page 33 of Lana Pecherczyk
Chapter
Ten
“Put your hand here and here.” Ada guided Blake’s fingers to the soft, downy feathers in the crook of River’s semi-folded wing. “Split them apart when he flexes.”
“I usually save the splitting and flexing for the second date,” River joked.
Blake tensed.
“Unless I’ve had a few quarts of moonshine,” he added. “Then I’ll split and flex for anyone.”
“Ignore him,” Ada said. “Continue dragging your fingers to lift the quills … yes, perfect. Keep doing that.”
River’s feathers ruffled moments before he tucked his wings with a snap.
“Maybe I should leave,” Blake said.
“No. He’s fine.” Ada smacked River’s head. He shot them a simpering glare over his shoulder, then flexed his wings outward again with deliberate slowness.
“See?” Ada motioned for Blake to continue.
Sensation thrummed into her fingers as they glided through his feathers. The gentle disheveling released his woody, skyscent—earthy yet somehow warm and heady. Blake leaned closer, puzzled by its unexpected pull.
On her next stroke, River gave a full-body shudder. A flood of raw desire burst through his block on their bond.
Blake snatched her hand back. He’d said only his mate could touch his wings. Because it turned him on? The notion should have repulsed her. But instead, she returned and increased the pressure, lingering to savor the silky texture against her fingertips. Making him squirm felt like justice.
A pained groan escaped River’s lips. “How much longer?”
“Almost done,” Ada replied, her clinical tone distracted as she focused on writing down her observations. She pointed to a spot near the iridescent blue tips of one wing, where the feathers thinned. “Just here, Blake.”
Smirking, Blake stroked the full length of his wing’s bony arch to reach Ada’s spot. River’s sharp intake of breath was the only warning before feathers sped through her fingers, the friction stinging her palms. His wings vanished altogether.
Blake and Ada were left blinking at River’s back.
He sat rigidly facing the wall, every muscle coiled tight. A webbing of scar-like fissures she’d not noticed before fractured his glossy oil-slick tattoos, breaking them into unrecognizable patterns.
Emotion slammed into Blake with staggering force: pain, embarrassment, bitterness, rage. The torrent pricked tears in her eyes. Breathing became a conscious effort.
Blake’s vision cleared as the wave slowly ebbed—or rather, as he seemed to rein it in forcefully through sheer willpower. Ada’s words filtered back into focus.
“…I don’t think my original prognosis will change. I can’t heal what’s not there. As with Aeron’s hearing, something missing must be reconstructed. No. That’s not right.” Ada tapped her lip, thinking. “With his eardrum, I can almost feel iton the other side of a chasm. That’s what’s so frustrating. I know I need a bridge, but with yours, it’s as though the feather-making nodes are simply gone, as if they never existed. Or blocked from my senses.”
“Blocked?”
Ada closed her notebook and gave him a rueful look. “As if they don’t want to be found.”
“You’re suggesting I’ve put myself in a perpetual molt on purpose?”
“Have you?”
“What happened?” The question escaped before Blake could stop it.
River snorted. “Got my feathers ruffled by a lightning rod with daddy issues. Doesn’t matter. Bet you’d look better naked than talking about my sob story.”
She blinked at River’s needling tone, then realized it was a deflection. “You can’t fly?”
His facetiousness crumbled. He slid off the bed and yanked on his shirt with sharp, efficient movements, each button secured with military precision. He avoided looking at Blake until the last button was fastened. Then, he fixed her with a withering glare.
