An hour later and the herons had flown away, leaving her with only the grasses for company. Even the light wind had fallen, the entire world in stasis. When she walked up the rise again, all was emptiness. “Naasir!” she yelled out to the mocking landscape. “If you don’t get here soon, I’ll eat all the meat!”
“Liar.”
Heart slamming into her rib cage, she swiveled so fast on her heel that she almost unbalanced. And there he was, his breath harsh and his skin hot, his hair tumbled from the run. She jumped into his arms, those arms wide open for her. Grabbing her under her wings, as if they’d done this a million times before and he knew exactly how to hold her, he lifted her off her feet and spun her around.
Laughing and crying, she locked her arms around him. “You’re late,” she accused when he stopped the spin. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Cuddling her close, he rubbed his cheek against hers. “I’m hungry.”
She pretended to punch his shoulder, but when he put her on her feet, tugged him to the picnic blanket . . . and there, in the middle of the tartan was a book that wasn’t supposed to exist. Lips parting on a gasp, she fell on her knees. She reached for the book, snatched back her hand before her fingers could graze the gold-etched red leather.
The gold outlined the image of a fierce winged creature with fiery breath.
“You can touch it,” Naasir said, sprawling on his side on the blanket. “I asked Jessamy what to do to thaw it safely.”
“Thaw it?”
Naasir didn’t answer. He’d flipped open the insulated container and found the seasoned meat. Grinning, he popped a cube into his mouth . . . and his chest rumbled in pleasure, eyes heavy lidded. “Who made this?”
She bit down on her lower lip. “Do you like it?”
“Yes. I hope you bought a lot.” He ate several more cubes.
Forgetting the Grimoire for a second, she beamed. “I made it. I used special spices you can only order from a shop in Marrakech—I had the package flown down so it’d arrive in time.”
His eyes lit up, but his next words were a growl. “Open the book so you can be sure it’s your stupid Grimoire.”
Laughing at the way he always referred to the Star Grimoire, she picked it up with utmost care. The leather was in near-flawless condition, only a little creased on the spine. “How can this be so old and so perfect?”
“It was hidden away,” Naasir said. “Maybe Osiris found it in the ice when he built the house that became his stronghold.” A shrug. “Later, it returned to the ice.”
“Will you tell me about your becoming?” Under a warm African sun where no darkness could linger.
He growled and, reaching over, grabbed the Grimoire. Undoing the lock with a rough quickness that made her squeak, he thrust it at her. “Is this it?”
Realizing he wasn’t going to tell her anything until she’d confirmed whether or not this was in fact the Grimoire, she took it from him and, sitting cross-legged on the picnic blanket, opened it with care. The text flowed like water across the page, interrupted only by two squares of delicately detailed illustrations.
Gold and silver and green and red, the colors were brilliant, as if the lines had been drawn yesterday. The black ink of the writing was as dark. Turning the page, she found a full-page drawing of a griffin. The mythical creature’s wings were gloriously arched, its body that of a lion and its eyes a hypnotic obsidian. Running her fingers carefully over the image, she felt her throat thicken.
“This is a jewel,” she whispered to Naasir. “One of the Seven Lost Angelic Treasures.” She rubbed away the tears rolling down her cheeks before the salt water could fall and damage the page.
Shifting to sit behind her so he could look over her shoulder, Naasir wrapped one strong arm around her waist. “Can you read the writing?”
“Yes. It’s an ancient angelic tongue.” Though angels were immortals, their languages had nonetheless drifted over the eons. “If I read it aloud, you’d understand large parts of it. It’s just the writing of it that’s changed so significantly.”
Naasir’s hair brushed her cheek as he leaned forward to turn the page, his body warm and strong around her. “So it’s the book from your vow?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Tugging the Grimoire out of her hands, he dropped it on the far side of the picnic blanket. When she turned to ask why he’d done that, he slammed his mouth against hers, his hand thrusting into her hair.
The shock of contact was blinding. Then came the hot, hard punch of violent pleasure. It hurt, she’d been needing him for so long. Moaning, she twisted in his embrace so that she could wrap her arms around his neck. He had other ideas.
A second later, she was on her back on the blanket, Naasir over her.
Weaving his hands through her own, he pinned them to either side of her head. His hair—one of her feathers still in place—fell around his face as he dipped his head toward her, his eyes silver bright. Mercy but he was beautiful, she thought and then his mouth was devouring hers, and her heart, it was thumping like a brutal hammer inside her chest.
She devoured him as he devoured her, her tongue licking against his, her teeth grazing his lips. He bit. Of course he bit. And that was okay, because this was Naasir and he was hers for this moment, this instant, this day.
He lowered his full weight on her, nudging apart her legs and grinding his erect cock against the swollen folds between her thighs. Inner muscles spasming as a ragged cry was ripped from her throat, she wrapped her legs around his waist and rocked against him. Growling into her mouth, he released one of her hands, reached down between them.