Page 11 of Astaroth
“You wouldn’t,actually.”
Gray eyes shifted. In one swift movement, he was there, seated beside Briar, hovering over him. Aster’s hand rested on his hip. Another eye gazed out from the top of his wrist. Shadows stretched away from Aster’s temples—the likeness of antelope horns—and another, larger eye stared at Briar, diamond-shaped and perched on his forehead. His bones were longer, more prominent. He appeared sharper, deadlier, with ears that curved into points and a deep, pink scar sliced across the bridge of his nose. Briar braced on his palm, leaning backward on the couch. His free hand landed on Aster’s chest.
“I wouldn’t?” Aster asked. Crickets and rain and the scrape of clean metal clouded his voice.
Briar’s throat worked around a swallow. Yes, he was afraid, but fear clashed with wonder. He was awestruck and intimidated and disastrously, unexplainably amorous. He spread his fingers on Aster’s chest, searching for his heartbeat.There. A soft, steady thump, thump, thump drummed against his palm.There you are.Briar studied him—the new eyes blinking on his body, the subtle flex through the back of his sweater, the thin cut of his mouth, the tall point of his horns—and tipped his head. Hefelt the urge to let himself go limp, to fall against the couch like the final girl in a cheesy horror film, and give himself over to be ravaged. But his clippings ached, sore and hot on his shoulder blades, and he didn’t want a sudden painful flare to ruin whatever this was.
“You’re stunning,” Briar said.
Aster’s brows twitched confusedly. “So, itismy devilish good looks, then.”
“Did you honestly think this would scare me?”
He glanced at Briar’s mouth. “I did. It’s only a partial viewing, though.”
“Let me see them.”
His eyes softened. “What?”
Briar gave a curt nod. “Don’t play dumb, I know they’re corseted. Show them to me.”
Aster eased away, knees perched on the couch cushions beside Briar’s thighs. He pulled his sweater over his head and tossed it away in one fluid motion. In a blink, he’d adorned his human features again, doing away with horns and excessive eyes. Underneath his clothes, Aster’s wings were pinned against his back by a corset the length of his torso. Gold clasps cinched along his stomach, holding the appendages still.
Carefully, Briar reached for the clasp nearest his pants and slid the thin, leather belt through the buckle. He met Aster’s eyes as he undid the second, the third, the fourth, and finally, reached the last fastening. An expanse of smooth, tannish skin filled Briar’s line of sight. Feathers rustled. Aster’s wings flexed, shaking discomfort away. They were beautiful, cream and beige and brown, the same pattern mirrored in white-faced barn owls. Unlike post-humanity angels, Aster wore two pairs, one set rooted at his shoulder blades, the others a few inches below, curving away from the bottom of his ribcage.
Envy sparked. Briar sighed through his nose. Without thinking, he pushed his fingers through the soft plumage. Aster sucked in a quiet, surprised breath and went still. “I miss them,” Briar said, as a means of explanation, and stroked the back of his hand along the hollow bone close to Aster’s spine.
“They’ll grow back,” he whispered.
Briar nodded, ignoring the lump growing in his throat. “The break wasn’t clean, but maybe.”
“Mine weren’t either. It just takes a bit longer. That’s all.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Snow frosted the windows. Briar dragged his thumb over a large feather, hyperaware of the minimal space between them. He pushed away from the couch, craned forward, and accepted the tender brush of Aster’s lips on his cheek. Aster scooped his hand around Briar’s lower back. They stayed like that, suspended, before Briar finally mustered the courage to tilt his head, snagging Aster’s jaw with his mouth.
Their lips met on an inhale. Briar thought to imitate every kiss he’d ever seen. He clung to memories—wet lips, soft tongues, shifting jaws—but movies and voyeurism did nothing to prepare him for Aster’s gentleness. He’d anticipated a searing kiss. He’d imagined the wind being knocked from him. But Aster’s mouth lacked urgency. Instead, he kissed Briar slowly, their mouths pressing and pulling, honey-sweet and painfully polite. Briar lifted his palm from the couch, allowing Aster to take his weight, and cupped his cheek. The damp pass of Aster’s tongue on his bottom lip caused Briar’s hips to jump. He slid his wide hand along vertebrae, climbing higher, and pressed on the sensitive, wounded skin around Briar’s clippings.
Briar yelped. He arched toward Aster’s chest, squirming away from the pressure between his severed wings. “Careful, I—”
“Haven’t let Mallory tend to your clippings,” Aster said, sighing sharply through his nose. He shot Briar a hard glare. “How bad are they?”
He rolled his lips together. “Bad.”
“Howbad?”
“Bad enough,” he snapped.
“Let me tend to them.”
Embarrassment fell like a stone in his stomach. “You’reyou. I’ll do it myself or I’ll—”
“Don’t fucking do that,” Aster said. He sounded so,sohuman. He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of looking after you. Let me see.”
Briar eased away and turned toward the windows. With Aster at his back, he lifted his long-sleeved shirt over his head, bundling it around his forearms. His nerves buzzed, reeling from the imprint Aster’s mouth had left on his own, and inflaming the scabbed mounds where his wings used to perch. He imagined gore there. Bone splintering skin. Red-rimmed cuts. Dark, unhealed fissures. Briar’s vulnerability was displayed like mangled artwork.Here, he thought.See what I’ve been reduced to—wingless, powerless, flightless.He pulled his knees to his chest, enduring the tight pull around his clippings.
Aster clucked his tongue. He sighed through his nose and curled his hand around Briar’s nape, a grounding touch. “Stay here.”
