She stroked the silky hair at his nape, ignoring the stab of jealousy at the mere thought of him with other women. Dead ones, no less!
“We can never have more than this night,” she said.
His eyes darkened. “Then I must make sure you never forget it.”
Gavriel’s hand slid beneath the hem of her cotton shift, lightly tracing the curve of her hip. She arched against him, a soft sound of pleasure escaping her lips. His reserve cracked and he kissed her, his heart beating against hers, but much swifter. His hand found the swell of her breast.
Cathrynne closed her eyes, surrendering to the fever heat of his skin, the rasp of his beard as he trailed kisses down her throat. She tentatively found the juncture where his wings met the blades of his shoulders. They were covered with soft down. Gavriel shivered against her and she felt him stiffen . . .
Suddenly, he pulled back. Embarrassment sent a hot flush up her neck. So he’d come to his senses after all. She should have expected it. Why was she torturing herself like this?
“It’s not you,” Gavriel said hoarsely. “I would give anything for us to be together. It’s all I’ve been able to think of for days. You consume me.” He sighed. “But there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. It’s about your father.”
Cathrynne sat up, wary. “What about him?”
“After Alluin Westwind was arrested, he was brought to Mount Meru to await my father’s judgment. But Valoriel was in one of his melancholy moods. He got that way sometimes, not speaking for months, delegating his responsibilities to me or my brother Michael.”
She listened in silence, nameless dread burrowing into her heart.
“On the day your father was brought to the Censura,” Gavriel continued, “Valoriel had ordered me to stand in as regent. I was the one who passed judgment on him.”
Her hands felt cold. Cathrynne pulled the quilt to her chest, drawing her knees up. “Have you known all along?”
Gavriel shook his head. “Only since Arjevica, when I realized the Lenormands were your birth family. I . . . I had forgotten the incident.”
“Forgotten,” she repeated tonelessly. “I see. And what was his sentence?”
Gavriel looked away. “Two hundred years on the Plain of Contemplation.”
She inhaled sharply. “That is severe.”
“I see that now.” He looked miserable. “But at the time, I did what I thought was right. What the law called for. I do not defend myself, Cathrynne.” He drew a shaky breath. “Your father begged me to show leniency. I refused. Worse still, I knew that no angel has ever returned from the Plain of Contemplation.”
The heat she’d felt moments before was steadily building, but she didn’t want to feel his hands on her, or to kiss those perfectly shaped lips.
No, she wanted to hurl him through the window.
“I wielded the Rod of Penance with little thought for those your father left behind,” Gavriel admitted. “Nor for the nature of his crime, which arose from love not hate?—”
“Get out,” she said.
The words came out calm—far calmer than she felt. His forlorn expression only made her angrier. The dream must be of her own father as he was cast into perdition by the very angel she had nearly fallen for. She felt tricked, used, and heartbroken at all once.
Gavriel nodded as if he’d expected as much. “I don’t blame you for hating me. But Cathrynne, please, I want you to know that?—”
“Just go!”
His face went blank as though she’d slapped him. He strode to the balcony doors and threw them open. Cold air rushed in. Gavriel looked back at her once, his face a mask of pain and regret, then stepped off the edge. Dark wings carried him up and out of sight.
Cathrynne stared at the fluttering curtains. She felt gutted, yet why should she be surprised? He was Sion’s chief magistrate, notorious for his strict adherence to the letter of the law.
And he had lied to her about it. Lied for days.
A small voice reminded her that Gavriel had only done what he believed was right at the time. Yet the fact that he had not even remembered her father—that was the worst part. He must have sent a great many angels to their doom to be so cavalier about it.
Cathrynne’s jaw clenched. Her first assessment had been spot-on. Gavriel Morningstar was a complete prick!
Her gaze fell on the vase filled with cheerful yellow buttercups, the bouquet he had picked for her on the moor. Cathrynne gripped the iron bed frame, drawing deep on the fiery red ley contained in the metal. An instant later, the flowers burst into flame and the vase exploded.
