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My nostrils flare as I pry her lips apart and flex my tongue into the wet depth of her mouth. Her own tongue latches to mine and curls into me. Yet instead of burning desire, my mate’s taste racks me with anguish and terror.

Anguish for what I might lose next. Terror of what could happen to her.

Lark could have been there with me. She could have been exposed on that zenith.

I kiss her harder, rougher, faster. My tongue licks into her, the rhythm quick and famished, the way it is when I drive it between her legs, probing deeply into her slick walls. Lark meets my pace, as she always has. She catches my tongue and lances her own into me. Our mouths slant and thrust, sealed so tightly that breathing is hopeless.

I want to vanish into her, cloak her in my wings, so that no one can reach her, no one can touch her. None but me.

My fingers grip Lark’s full, soaked ass and haul her against me. Her breasts mash into my torso, and those lovely, pink nipples toughen for more. The sweet thatch of her pussy bucks into my cock, and—

And then I remember the blood. Rather, we both remember the blood.

Our mouths split apart, and our foreheads pin together. We draw in harsh drafts of air, our exhalations colliding.

“Well, hell,” she tries to joke. “You know I like a little domination now and again, so I’m not gonna complain.” Then she whispers, “Talk to me, Cerulean. Tell me what happened.”

“Something,” I rasp. “Maybe everything.”

“Is this more of your Fae speak? Because I’m not in the mood for riddles.”

“Trust me. When I’m riddling, you’ll know.”

Lark peers at me, her brows knit with determination, and she strips the clothes from my body. Since I rarely don a shirt—why bother, when I can feel the wind rushing against my skin?—this takes little time. My winged ear caps go first, then the coat, which Lark shrugs from my shoulders.

As my eyes stray to her bent head, unconditional affection squats in my throat. She has only ever torn off my clothes in a frantic rush of heat and sex, all while muttering the filthiest, spiciest demands.

But this is infinitely different, the tenderness overwhelming. This is what it’s like to be taken care of, to be part of an even exchange.

Her care for my care. Her mortal heart for my black one.

I toe off my boots while she unbuckles the waistband of my loose pants. I help her, kicking them from my sight. A breeze coasts across my thighs and cock, then descends to my unshod feet.

She guides me to the bath. We sink in, the water swirling around us and leaching the tension from my bones.

Lark maneuvers behind me and straps her arms around my chest, her limbs rise to flank my hips, and her ample breasts swell beneath my weight. The scars on her knees glisten, prompting me to run a thumb over the pulped skin.

Mist rises from the tub. With the back of my skull resting on the crook of her neck, I recount the details of the attack. Lark listens while washing the blood from my body. Crimson leaks into the tub and disappears, one of the many magnificent powers of water in Faerie—its ability to drain away filth and refresh itself.

My mate remains quiet, which is unlike her. Usually, she’s vocal and visceral when reacting to news. Oftentimes, this involves a string offucksandfuckingandfuckery. Tonight, she’s silent but for a sequence of gulps and a singular hitched breath.

Once I’m clean, we watch a vulture cut over the mountain range, the pinnacles encrusted with teetering trees and burning torchlights. From within the confines of this park, the cougar roars again, this time from further off.

Lark tightens her body around mine and buries her face in my nape. “Dammit, Cerulean. The raven could have disemboweled you. Don’t you ever die on me, or I’ll flay your pretty ass.”

A tired chuckle pushes from my mouth. “I should be so lucky to suffer your retribution.”

“Does this mean we’re battling the fauna now?”

The dread in her voice is unmistakable. “We don’t know anything yet.”

“But the others need to know.”

“Agreed. And soon.”

We dredge up theories about the attack and who could have instigated it. How the fuck had this happened? What Fae would use the sacred fauna like this? Who would go to those lengths?

As we weigh the possibilities, the water never loses its heat. A pair of hawks shave through the air, emerald hummingbirds flit into the shrubs, and an owl hoots. The latter isn’t my father. I’d know his call anywhere, would recognize the slant and slide of it from a thousand leagues.