Page 118 of The Phoenix
Celene glanced at Jace before she spoke. “Well, I’ll be vacating my quarters at the Covenkirk stronghold.”
“Let me guess,” said Indigo, “the growly pussycat has invited you to share his bed.”
“He’s not so snarly when you pet him. Besides, we’re getting mated. Jaguar style. Whatever that means. We’ll invite all of you to the lavish shindig once this mess is over.”
After the shouts of congratulations died down, Margo rifled through her bag, withdrawing a pen and small notebook. “A room freed up. Galena, do I need to move you out of the barracks and into the panty-wetting Englishman’s apartment? Mates like to bunk together.”
“Amazons don’t mate.” Galena glanced around, her eyes peering over the rim of her wineglass.
Indigo nudged Lizzy’s arm. “Don’t tell us. You just screw like Darque gorrelcats.”
The tall, athletic Firebrand sipped her pinot before she cleared her throat. “If you must know, we are in an exclusive relationship.”
“So yes.” Margo jotted a reminder into her notes. “Which leaves the muscle-bound carnal demon and Harley. Do you need bigger quarters or are you two gonna continue sneaking through the hallways, pretending nobody notices?”
Harley pushed her glasses onto her nose. “He hasn’t asked me to be his mate. I guess we just stick with sneaking for now.”
“Carnal demons are notorious for bed-hopping.” Galena ignored Harley’s glare. “Until they find the one. You’re the one. I was on assignment with Brak recently. You were all he talked about. If it weren’t so gaggy, it would be cute. You better be ready for him to pop the question. Be certain, though. He’s a lot of beast to handle.”
Indigo grinned. “And handle often. Those carnal demons die without daily doses of humping, cock sucking, and penis stroking.”
Harley’s chin tilted in confidence despite her flushed cheeks. “I have no problem keeping up with him.”
Incredulous eyes flipped to Harley. Murmurs of approval made the circuit around the room while some females looked a little jealous of her stamina.
Celene held the book above her head. “Now that we’ve stuck our noses into everyone’s sex life, who wants to read? Harley, you’re fresh blood, no pun intended. Your turn. Read fast. Our time is limited. I’m surprised we could get this many of us together.”
Harley adjusted her glasses. “Where do I start?”
“It’s bookmarked,” said Jace.
“Wine?” Margo jack-in-the-boxed off the floor to circulate with a bottle in each fist.
Harley reached out to take the book. After flipping through the pages until she found where they had left off last meeting, she cleared her throat.
Ohngel sat astride his worthy steed, an animal as fiery as his own wings, its hooves churning up the ground, its crimson mane blowing in the wind. Finding the warrior he sought on the battlefield, he shielded his eyes from the blinding light radiating from his target’s massive white wings. Spread wide, they glowed brighter than the sun, capturing it, breaking it into hundreds of pieces of dazzling shards of brilliance.
Though Michael needed a horse no more than did Ohngel, the warrior often preferred fighting atop one. With his flair for the dramatic, he enjoyed his appearance, wings snapped out behind him, a mighty roan gripped between his thighs, his sword arcing toward his enemy’s neck, and blood splattering the air. Quite terrifying.
Since the Bearer of Death was surrounded by many enemies, Ohngel dug his heels into his stallion, drew his blade, and charged into the thick of battle to relieve the warrior of two opponents. As always, the blood dripping from his blade soothed his anger, stroked his weary soul, assuaged his baser passions.
When the skirmish ended, Michael approached him, a smile tilting the corners of his lips. His horse, though tamed by firm-gripped reins, pawed the ground and snorted fire. “To what do I owe a visit from a member of the Feard, the OneCreator’s fire-winged assassin?” The warrior wiped his bloody blade on his tunic before returning it to its sheath, his boots and breeches spattered with gore. At his noble beast’s hooves, bodies bestrewed the ground. His enemies’ shredded feathers littered the field.
Holding his fierce mount steady, Ohngel said, “Always more fallen to battle. There seems to be a never-ending supply of victims for the OneCreator’s Bearer of Death.”
“Yes. A surfeit of idiots.” On the back of his stallion, Michael swung away from the grim scene.
“To answer your question, I have come seeking your company.” Ohngel reined his stallion alongside.
“Then let us hie to my abode where we will be more comfortable.” With a touch on Ohngel’s upper arm, Michael teleported them and their steeds to a far-off region of Vast, an aerie, hidden atop a mountain, obscured in drifting white clouds.
Settling their horses in a stable, they wiped them down, filled a water trough, and provided fresh oats. Only then did they retire to Michael’s home.
It was a sanctuary from the white-winged Bearer of Death’s labors, perched at the edge of a cliff, open to air and light, soft whispering breezes curling around alabaster columns, a respite from battle.
Ohngel’s thick-padded boots shushed across the tile floor. Having divested himself of weapons, he took comfort among large, overstuffed pillows poised to look over the valley far below.
Michael unstrapped a plain sword. The blade was nothing like his other. He lay it on a table before pouring drinks from a chalice. Settling his war-honed body onto pillows near Ohngel, Michael passed off a goblet. “A mead I think you will like.”