Free Angels Dance by Nalini Singh Page B

they weren’t. But he was more than holding his own . . . waiting only until Illium made one overconfident move too many to pin the angel to the ground with a blade through the tip of his wing, where the wound would heal by morning.
    Cursing with unexpected creativity for someone so pretty, Illium glared at Galen. “You set me up.”
    “I had to gauge how fast you were, what you bring to Raphael’s forces.” Releasing the other angel, he rose to his feet. “You’ll do, Bluebell.”
    Illium swore at him in rapid-fire Greek. Galen replied in just as blue French, ordering him to come back for further sessions to improve a technique that was damn near flawless except for one thing. “You’re too cocky. Need to have some sense whacked into you.”
    Illium snarled but agreed to return— “So I can put you on your ass.”
    Separating from the angel once they reached the cliff, he flew down to his aerie to clean up and change before flying back up right as the rays of the setting sun blazed across the sky in innumerable shades of gold and orange, with the slightest edge of blush. It reminded him of the feather he’d secreted away with such care, the feather he’d been unable to discard even when he’d thought Jessamy’s lovely face that of a liar.
    It still bubbled in him, the rage that had roared to the surface when he’d seen the healer with his lips touching her skin, her face lifted up to his in absolute trust. Galen had no right to expect anything similar from her after so short an acquaintance, but the logic of it didn’t matter, because he did .
    Landing on the gray and blue tiles shimmering with flecks of hidden elements in the dark orange light, he relieved Jason with a curt nod, waiting until the other angel took flight—his inky wings a dramatic silhouette against the cascade of color—to walk inside Jessamy’s home, bolting the door behind himself.
    “Jason, did you—” Looking up from where she sat behind a harp, the thick silk of her hair cascading over one shoulder, her gown now a plain sage green that curved lower across her chest than the gown she’d earlier worn, Jessamy’s welcoming smile faded, her expression turning guarded, solemn. “Galen.”
    It twisted something inside him to know he’d put that look on her face. “I have a temper,” he said, because it had to be said. “A terrible one.”
    Her fingers danced over the strings of the harp with exquisite grace, filling the air with a ripple of music, pure and sweet. “I’ve seen you practicing, sparring—you fight as if you have no emotions, a man utterly contained. Is that why?”
    Remaining in a standing position, he clasped his hands behind his back when the urge to fist her hair and tilt her head so he could take her mouth with primal possession, as he shaped the delicate mounds hinted at by her clothing, threatened to overwhelm him. “My father told me at a young age that if I didn’t learn to handle it, it would consume me.”
    “Your father was a wise man.” Another lilt of music. “Sit. Or do you plan to loom over me until I submit?”
    No one who had seen him in a temper had ever dared tease him before. He wasn’t certain how he felt about it, but he allowed himself to lower his guard now that she’d accepted him in her space and—stripping off his sword and harness—took a seat in the large armchair in front and to the left of her. “I’ve become legend for the depth of my control. No one has witnessed me rage in well over a century.”
    The music twanged, stopped.
    “You say such things, Galen . . . and I’m not certain how to respond.” Aching vulnerability twined around Jessamy’s heart. He would mark her, this man. Mark her so deep and true it would become a scar. But she’d made her choice, would not permit fear to steal it from her. “It’s time for another lesson about the Cadre.” She continued to play, noticing how his shoulders relaxed as the lyrical sound filled the air.
    Checking his