Page 13 of Astaroth
Laughter answered him. “I’ll meet you in the atrium!”
Briar rushed to his room, undressed as quickly as possible, dug through his drawers until he found a pair of swim trunks, and stopped by the bathroom to do stupid, pseudo-teenage things—check his teeth, push awkwardly at his hair, wrap a robe around his nearly naked body. No wonder people acted possessed after diving into intimacy. If something as boring as a kiss had done this to Briar, he couldn’t blame anyone who’d experienced more for acting outright belligerent.
Not that kissing was boring. Kissing Aster certainly hadn’t been. Not in the slightest.
On his way to the atrium, he caught sight of Sam and Jennifer curled together on the couch in the living room, lit by the crackling fireplace. Luca crossed the landing at the top of the staircase, yowling about their laundry not being finished, and Mallory picked at her dinner in the sitting room, listening to what looked to be an audiobook. A few other people loungedaround the estate, dressed in thick socks and winter pajamas. Strange, it was, being subject to such a peculiar haunting.
Briar left his house-shoes at the front of the atrium, feeling across the cold tiles with his bare feet. Snow piled in the cracks on the paneled glass dome, brightened by the eerie green pool light. He draped his robe over a bench next to a succulent terrarium and eased into the water. Steam coiled through the air. Shadows stretched away from bushy caladiums and Chinese evergreens, and the darkness deepened under the weight of the storm. His fingers swooped lazily through the warm water. Toes curled. He leaned against the cold lip near the stairs and shivered, tipping his head back to watch snow flutter through the black. Months ago, he would’ve been in his bunk, journaling about a recent mission or preparing for a new one. He would’ve clung to the promise of patching the wounded and casting out wickedness. But now, here, confined to Astaroth’s estate, he challenged the assumptions he’d once used as a crutch—who had the power to be wicked, to do wrong, to inflict hurt, to judge without cause? Truthfully, he wasn’t sure anymore.
Footsteps padded the tile. Aster melded from the darkness, wings dragging behind him, wearing nothing but black swim shorts. His stomach was etched with fine, tapered muscle, and his wide shoulders rounded below his ears. The shadowed line extending from his sternum, shading the center of his torso, dove down toward the hard line of jutting hipbones. He was exquisite. Perfectly made. He set two glasses on the edge of the pool and filled them with dark, cranberry wine. Briar pulled his slack jaw shut.
Aster handed him a glass. “Can I ask you something?”
Briar nodded. “You can. I can’t promise an answer, though.”
“Fair enough. Why’d you take part in the Celestial Auction?”
“I had the choice between a century imprisoned with Michael as my keeper or a decade spent pleasing a buyer. To be fair, I honestly didn’t think anyone would request a viewing.”
Aster waded into the water. He sipped his wine, watching Briar carefully. “There was a frenzy over you.”
“Who else bid?”
“I’m not supposed to say,” Aster purred, drifting closer. He scooped his palm over Briar’s knee and chuckled under his breath. “But I was bidding against Baal, Azazel and Gabriel.”
Briar paused mid-sip.Gabriel. “Archangels bid during the auction. . . ?”
“Are you naïve enough to believe they don’t? Anyone bought in the auction signs away their rights. Where else could the powerful on high find a semi-willing whetstone?”
“Literally, anywhere.”
“Sure, maybe. But they’d be breaking their own laws. The auction strips away their duty to morality. If someone leverages a lesser sentence in exchange for retainment, they have no right to cry foul.” He ran his hand along Briar’s leg. Water sloshed over Briar’s belly as Aster moved closer, caging him against the steps. “The Celestial Auction gives angels a chance to behave like demons,” he said. His lips brushed the shell of Briar’s ear. “Everyone wants a taste of forbidden fruit—everyone.”
“I didn’t,” Briar said. He drained the rest of his wine. The gust of Aster’s breath on his throat spiked into the depths of him, throbbing between his thighs.
“Past tense,” Aster noted, curiously.
“Past tense.”
“Whatdoyou want?”
“Many things.”
“I’m listening.”
“I guess I’m afraid,” Briar confessed. He swallowed, reaching past Aster to set down his empty glass. “Because I’d like tobelieve I’m worthy of love. I’d like to believe sex is sacred and bodies are holy. Using them for what I wantshouldbe reserved for. . . for heartache—endearing heartache. I’d like to believe I’m capable of finding that, but. . .”
Aster tipped his head. “But?”
“But love isn’t the only catalyst, and sometimes it doesn’t define compatibility.”
“That’s true. What does? For you, I mean. What makes a compatible partnership?”
“Safety,” he said, like a secret. “Lack of judgement. Honesty. I’ve never. . . This is new to me. All of this. I need to be learned, not molded. I’ve spent my life as clay on a pottery wheel, and I’m done being carved away and reshaped.” He sipped his wine. “Your turn.”
“I want to be surprised, I think. Some see partnership as entertainment—I don’t. It’s an exchange of power, and I expect that exchange to be equal. What else do you want?”
Briar’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He inhaled sharply, face hot and hands restless beneath the water. “To be desired,” he said, simply, despite the answer weighing heavy inside him. “To want without consequences. To be kissed impolitely. To live freely, and take freely, and be. . .” He hesitated, blushing furiously. “Taken freely. I deserve to live without guilt, for once.”
