Page 2 of Archangel’s Lineage

Her lover was a warrior before he was an archangel.

His lips curving, he plucked at the fabric of her gown. “What is this? It feels almost as good as your skin.”

“I have no idea, but I love it.” Unlike the current rage in the Refuge, the gown was no frou-frou cloth marshmallow. Instead, it flowed over her in a slide of liquid silver-blue, sinuous and cool. The shoulders were narrow, the neckline plunging before it cut away to reveal her abdomen—but that entire top part was also so securely fitted that she was in no danger of revealing more than she wanted to reveal.

From the waist, it fell in what Montgomery told her was an A-line.

Elena hadn’t been sure about that—the sketch he’d shown her had looked far too prom gown—but as usual, the butler and his favorite tailor had been right. Constructed of seven separate panels, the skirt was higher in the front, the cut a sharp diagonal from the middle of her left thigh down to the calf of her right leg.

The design made movement easier—she could literally high-kick in this thing if required. They’d even worked with her penchant for wearing boots by giving her ones that matched the dress... while building hidden blade sheaths in both, then adding decorative touches in a deeper silver. Not only did the boots look badass striding out of the shorter front part of the dress, they were stable, wouldn’t throw her off in a fight.

Her arm sheaths were a glittering black against the dark gold of skin that was a testament to the Moroccan part of her heritage. Not as good as her usual sheaths, but they worked fine. On her upper arm sat the jeweled dagger that Raphael had given her—jeweled but more than functional if she needed to stab a snobby angel in the eye, as she so often dreamed of doing at these events.

But tonight, the dagger wasn’t the showpiece. Because from her neck down to her cleavage lived a black “tattoo” that Aodhan had painted onto her skin before she left New York. Again, it was a thing in vogue with angelkind and she had to admit it was more her style than the rest of current angelic fashion—especially since Aodhan had designed her ink to echo the mark on Raphael’s temple.

Hers was more elongated, with lines that seemed to hint at a powerful creature in flight, but that the two markings were a pair was indisputable.

“It’ll last a month,” Aodhan had told her after the work was complete, the dragon’s neck curving around her nape so that the creature lay with its head on her collarbone.

It was the closest she’d ever been to the angel whose entire body seemed to be composed of light, his breath brushing her skin as he leaned in to work. She’d wondered if it would feel odd even though they were friends. Then he’d started the piece and she’d realized that at that instant, she was nothing but a canvas to Aodhan.

“Canvases don’t talk back,” he’d muttered when she’d dared have an opinion, but his lips had quirked up.

Now, Raphael ran one finger down the lines of the tattoo, coming to a stop at the curve of her breast where it was exposed by the dress. “I do so enjoy how this looks when you are unclothed and wrapped around me.”

His wings rose above his shoulders, hers pressed to his body so only the black arches were visible, and it was them in the mirror. Two people whose loyalty was set in stone, and whose love was a slumbering inferno, hot and languid, until they wanted it to burn.

She and her archangel, they’d weathered a psychotic archangel, then a megalomaniacal one, a Cascade of fucking Death, and oh, just for fun, a vampiric uprising in the aftermath of a war that had devastated the world.

All of it side by side.

Raphael traced the line of the tattoo in the opposite direction, then slid his finger back down with luxurious intent, his eyes heavy-lidded as he caressed her.

“I’ll stab you if you don’t stop that.” She glared. “I have to put on my stupid be-polite-to-the-grand-poobahs face. Stop distracting me with thoughts of nakedness if you’re not going to pay up.”

His grin was wicked and young and one very few people ever saw. “I’ll remind you that I am one of the grand poobahs.”

Shifting her wing out of the way, she elbowed him in that rock-hard stomach, then pressed in with a blade without breaking the skin. “Right now, Mr.Grand Poobah Raphael, you’re barely dressed. We’ll be late if you don’t get a move on—and I will absolutely stab you if we have to stay later to make up the time.”

His grin didn’t alter as he drew back, his mood making her entire body tighten. The urge to jump onto him, lock her legs around that delicious body, and put his hand properly on her breast while she kissed the life out of him made her mouth water and her pulse race.

“So bloodthirsty.” Hot blue, his eyes made her a promise dark and decadent even as he kept his words light. “Truly, a woman I adore.”

She watched him move to the wardrobe where the staff who ran their Refuge stronghold had hung up the formal leathers he planned to wear tonight. He’d already put on the black pants, now pulled on the sleeveless black top that showcased his toned biceps and those forearms that made her want to bite him.

Down, Elena, she told herself. Save that for when you have lots of time.

Collarless, his fitted top sealed to the left side with a black zip.

Clean, powerful, sexy enough to make her swallow her tongue.

Raphael’s boots were the same shade, and, as she watched, he strapped on the pair of bracers she’d given him as a gift. Made of what appeared to be a single piece of black iron each, with intricate detailing carved into the metal, the bracers covered his wrists and forearms and were designed to ward off sword blows in battle.

Turning away before she attacked him in pure lust, she decided to pull her hair back into a high ponytail.

It revealed the handcrafted amber studs in her ears—one a miniature crossbow, the other the bolt. Created for her alone, and a quiet but clear sign that she was very much entangled with the Archangel of New York.

Having already done her makeup, she was ready when Raphael slid a sword into the sheath on his back. With her dress being backless, she hadn’t needed anything to accommodate her wings, but his top had wing slits that he’d sealed using his power. The sheath was built into the top, his sword a ceremonial item given to him by his Seven approximately fifty years earlier for his one thousandth five hundredth birthday.