Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
I wake up sore in places I didn't know could be sore.
The training has been brutal. Three days since Heaven's ultimatum, three days of pushing my body past every limit I thought I had. Seraph is a merciless instructor when it comes to combat, and the bruises blooming across my ribs and thighs are proof of his particular brand of perfectionism.
I drag myself out of bed, muscles protesting, and pull on my training gear.
Black leggings, fitted tank top, hair pulled back in as much of a knot as I can manage at the base of my neck.
My hair has grown long enough I can gather it at least. I try not to notice the two thick silver streaks near my right temple.
My stomach growls. I can't remember if I ate dinner last night or if I just collapsed into bed after Seraph finally declared me "marginally less pathetic than yesterday."
High praise, coming from him.
The House of Ruin is quiet as I make my way toward the dining room. Too quiet. Usually there's some kind of ambient noise, spectral servants drifting about, the distant sound of Seraph critiquing something. But this morning the marble halls feel empty. Waiting.
I round the corner into the main dining hall and stop dead.
They're all here.
All seven of them, gathered around the long table like some kind of war council. And they're all in workout gear.
Seraph in fitted white, somehow making combat clothes look like runway fashion.
Croesus in black and gold, his usual suits traded for something practical that still probably costs more than my old apartment.
Kael in leather and armor pieces, looking like he's about to march into battle.
Lysander in flowing dark fabric that moves like water when he shifts.
Idris in something sleek and dark that seems to absorb the light.
Dorian in comfortable training clothes, the most casual of them all.
Even Caspian is here, seated at the far end of the table with his cane propped against his chair, wearing simple gray that makes him look like a ghost.
All of them. In fighting gear. Talking in low voices that cut off the moment I appear.
My heart rate spikes. "Who died?"
Seven pairs of ancient eyes turn to look at me.
"No one," Seraph says smoothly. "Yets."
"That's not comforting." I scan their faces, looking for some hint of what's happening. Croesus won't quite turn toward me. Seraph's expression is carefully blank. The others range from curious to amused to utterly unreadable. "Why do you all look like you're about to storm a castle?"
"Training day," Kael says, and there's anticipation in his ember gaze. "Group exercise."
"Group exercise," I repeat flatly. "All seven of you. In fighting gear. At—" I glance at the clock on the wall. "—seven in the morning."
"You said we needed to work together," Dorian offers. "We're working together."
"By ambushing me before breakfast?"
"You haven't eaten?" Croesus is already moving, rising from his chair with that fluid grace that makes my stomach do complicated things.
He crosses to me, and his hand finds the small of my back as he guides me toward an empty seat.
The touch is brief, almost casual, but I feel it like a brand through the thin fabric of my tank top.
He's been finding excuses to touch me every time we steal a moment together. Small things. Brief contacts. Like he's reassuring himself that I'm real, that I'm here, that the other night actually happened.
I sit where he puts me, and a moment later there's a plate in front of me. Fruit, toast, eggs.
"Eat," he says. "You'll need your strength."
"For what, exactly?" I pick up a piece of toast, take a bite, and stare at them all. "Someone want to explain why I walked into what looks like a fallen angel intervention?"
Seraph clears his throat. The others look at him, and I realize with a start that he's been designated spokesperson. Which is interesting, given that they're in his house.
"We've been discussing the situation," he begins.
"Without me," I say, flatly. “You obviously have been talking before this or you all wouldn’t be in your training clothes.”
"The gear is for after. We thought—" He pauses, and something flickers across his perfect features. Discomfort, maybe. Or uncertainty. Both look wrong on him. "We thought perhaps it's time we stopped fighting what's happening. The bond. What it could become."
I set down my toast. "I'm listening."
"Heaven has made their position clear." Seraph's silver eyes meet mine, and I see something there I haven't seen before.
Resolve. "They want the binding broken. They've given us thirty days to comply or face execution.
Fighting among ourselves, resisting the connection between us, serves their purpose. Not ours."
"So you want to embrace it instead."
"We want to explore what it could be." Lysander leans forward, violet eyes glittering. "You've shown us glimpses. The way you channeled power during combat training. The way Seraph and Croesus can sense your emotions even when you try to shield them. There's potential here we haven't begun to tap."
I file away that little nugget about my emotions to prod at later. "Potential to do what?"
"Survive," Kael says bluntly. "Heaven's coming for us. All of us. The only way we stand a chance is if we're stronger together than we are apart. It’s either that, or feed you to them and return to the status quo."
I look around the table. At these ancient, powerful, complicated beings who were enemies more than allies just months ago. Who are now bound to me whether any of us wanted it.
Lysander catches my eye across the table, and his violet gaze drops slowly down my body before rising again.
Heat flickers there. Memory. He watched me come apart on a dining table a couple nights ago, watched Seraph worship me with his mouth while I screamed.
The knowledge sits between us like a living thing.
Kael's ember eyes burn brighter when they meet mine. Dorian's smile has an edge to it that wasn't there before. Even Idris is watching me differently, their shifting gaze lingering in ways that make my skin prickle.
They all saw. They all watched. And none of us are pretending otherwise.
I’m a grown-ass woman. If I want an angel to eat me like a fucking Christmas pudding on a dining room table in front of five of his rivals, then I’m damn well not going to be ashamed of it after.
If they are waiting for that, then they are going to look like fools.
"You've all agreed to this?" I say, despite the direction my thoughts have turned.
Nods around the table. Caspian inclines his head slightly, though his pale eyes remain distant and confused, like he's missing context everyone else has. Which he is. He wasn't at the dinner. Wasn't there for any of it. Can’t say I mind. Of all the men, I’m attracted to him the least, as if I touched him, he might break. Kael is the one I fear the most. He already looks at me like I’m a done deal the second I walk through his door.
"There's more," Croesus says quietly. He's taken the seat beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. "We were discussing what comes next. After the immediate crisis. After—" He stops, jaw tightening.
"After my year with Seraph ends," I finish.
Seraph's expression goes sharp. Cold. It's subtle, but I've learned to read him over these past months. He's not happy about this part of the conversation.
"The agreement requires you to serve all seven houses," Dorian says gently. "One year each. You've completed your time with Croesus. You're currently serving Seraph. But eventually, you'll need to move on."
"We were discussing where you should go next," Lysander adds. "Which house. Which angel."
I take a bite of eggs, chewing slowly to give myself time to think. "And? What did you decide?"
Silence.
Then Idris's voice slides into my mind, cool and amused.
They've been arguing about it for an hour. Croesus thinks you should come back to him and we should all forfeit our rights. Seraph thinks you should stay here indefinitely. My how you’ve got them tied in knots, little sin eater.
Kael thinks combat training should take priority. Lysander thinks—
"Stay out of my head," I say aloud.
Idris' lips curve. Their eyes are shifting green today, catching the light like precious stones. I'm simply providing context.
"I can get my own context, thanks," I snap.
"The consensus," Seraph says, and his voice has gone clipped, precise, the way it does when he's controlling himself more than usual, "is that you should go to Idris next. The House of Regret. If—" He stops. Starts again. "If you survive the year."
There it is. The thing that's put that cold fury in his silver eyes.
"If I survive," I repeat. "You mean if we survive Heaven's deadline."
"I mean if you survive my house." Seraph's jaw is tight enough to cut glass. "Training with me. Fighting alongside me. Learning what I have to teach. You've been here a couple months. Ten more to go. A great deal can happen in that time."
"You think I'm going to die before my year is up?" At least he doesn’t seem worried about the thirty day timeline, but I have to admit I feel a little stung he has so little faith in me after how much I’ve improved. Changed.
"I think Heaven wants you dead, the other angels want access to you, and you have a talent for throwing yourself into danger." His silver eyes blaze. "I think keeping you alive is going to be the hardest thing I've ever done, and I've been alive a “long damn time.”
"That's almost sweet. In a deeply pessimistic way."
Croesus makes a sound that might be a laugh.