Page 54

Archer

I braced my elbows on the library table, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until white stars burst behind my eyelids.

The ancient text before me, a treatise on angelic bloodlines, swam with symbols I could barely decipher anymore.

How long had I been at this? Hours? Days?

The candles had burned down twice since I'd last noticed them.

My stomach cramped with hunger, a sensation I'd been ignoring for.

.. fuck, I didn't even know how long. Food was an inconvenience.

Sleep was worse—every time I closed my eyes, I saw Sierra writhing in pain, her silver hair, the same as Azrael's silver hair, how had I missed that?

—splayed across the sheets as her body betrayed her.

I picked up my dagger and began twirling it through my fingers, the familiar motion bringing a small measure of calm to my chaotic thoughts. The repetitive movement had been my anchor since childhood, one of the few constants I'd had growing up in the Underworld.

Ten days. We had ten fucking days before Sierra's primal heat hit with its full force. And if what these texts suggested was accurate, a quarter-angel's first true heat was catastrophic. Potentially fatal without proper preparation.

I slammed the dagger down into the wooden table, where it stood quivering.

"Fuck!" I snarled into the empty library.

I yanked the blade free and resumed my desperate reading.

The text described how nephilim, half-angels, experienced their maturation.

The symptoms were eerily similar to what Sierra was already experiencing, but magnified a hundredfold.

Fever that could boil blood. Pain that could shatter bones.

Desire so intense it could drive the afflicted mad with need.

And that was for half-angels.

What would happen to Sierra, with her quarter-angel blood coming from one of the most powerful angels in existence? Would she survive it? Would we be enough to help her through it?

But she was an omega. What role did that play in the fates' plans?

The uncertainty was eating me alive. For the first time in centuries, I felt utterly useless. All my skills, fighting, killing, infiltration, meant nothing against this invisible enemy attacking Sierra from within.

I reached for another tome, this one bound in what looked like petrified wood. Its pages were translucent, like insect wings, and crackled beneath my fingertips. I'd been avoiding this particular text because of its fragility, but desperation was winning out over caution.

My mother's face flashed in my mind, not as I'd last seen her, worn down by centuries of servitude and regret, but as Sierra had described her from the dream-state. Lovely , Sierra had called her. With eyes just like mine. Something tightened in my chest at the thought.

Where was my mother now? Was she truly with Azrael in that in-between place? And why hadn't she ever mentioned her connection to one of the most powerful angels in creation?

I supposed I'd never given her much chance. Our infrequent meetings had been stilted, awkward things. She'd been too traumatized by my father's manipulations to be a real mother, and I'd been too angry at her apparent abandonment to be a real son. Another relationship I'd fucked up beyond repair.

I turned another delicate page, scanning the ancient angelic script for any mention of quarter-blooded offspring. There had to be something here. Some precedent, some solution, some way to ensure Sierra's survival.

Because the alternative was unthinkable.

In the short time since she'd entered our lives, Sierra had become essential to me in ways I couldn't fully articulate.

Her silver hair fanned across my chest as she slept.

The small, contented sounds she made when I kissed that sensitive spot just below her ear.

The fearless way she challenged Rowen when he was being unreasonable.

The understanding in her eyes when she looked at me—really looked at me—as if she saw all the broken, jagged pieces and wanted them anyway.

The thought of losing her made my chest constrict so painfully I could barely breathe.

And then there were the others. For centuries, Rowen had been my only constant—the closest thing to family I'd ever known.

But now, our circle had expanded. My relationship with Rowen's mate was.

.. complicated, intense, and surprisingly essential.

The four of us together formed something I'd never dared hope for—a family. My family.

I couldn't lose them. Not when I'd just found them.

My vision blurred, and I realized I was trembling with exhaustion. When was the last time I'd slept? Forty-eight hours ago? More? I couldn't afford weakness now. Not with the clock ticking down relentlessly toward Sierra's twenty-ninth birthday.

I forced my eyes to focus on the text before me, my finger tracing the elaborate script. The ancient language was difficult even at the best of times, and my current state made translation even harder. Still, I persisted, translating one word at a time.

Quarter-blood... celestial... maturation... binding...

The words swam before my eyes, rearranging themselves into meaningless patterns. I blinked hard, trying to clear my vision. This was important. I needed to understand this. Sierra's life might depend on it.

Binding through... consummation... power transference...

There was something here. Something crucial. I could feel it hovering just beyond my comprehension. If I could just stay awake a little longer, push a little harder...

I didn't hear the footsteps approaching. Didn't notice anything until a soft knock broke through my concentration. I looked up, blinking against the sudden intrusion.

Sierra stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

The soft glow of the corridor lights behind her cast a halo around her silver hair.

She wore one of my shirts, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame, the hem hitting her mid-thigh.

Her bare legs seemed to go on forever despite her petite stature.

Even exhausted as I was, my body responded to the sight of her. Some primal part of me recognizing her as mine .

"Archer," she said softly, her voice carrying across the library. "It's three in the morning."

Was it? I had no idea. Time had ceased to have meaning hours—or was it days?—ago.

"I'm working," I replied, my voice rough from disuse. I gestured vaguely at the books spread before me. "There's something here about binding and power transference during maturation. It might help with your heat."

Sierra stepped fully into the library, padding toward me on bare feet.

As she drew closer, I could see the strain on her face, the lingering pain from her latest bout of cramps, the worry that had become her constant companion.

Yet somehow, she still looked at me with tenderness that made my chest ache.

"You haven't slept in two days," she said, stopping beside my chair. She reached out, her fingers gently brushing the dark circles I knew must be under my eyes. "You haven't eaten either, have you?"

I caught her wrist, pressing my lips to her palm. The scent of her, honey and that new electric undertone, filled my senses. "I'm fine. This is more important."

"No, it's not," she said firmly. She tugged her hand free and held it out to me. "Come to bed, Archer. I'm not taking no for an answer."

I stared at her extended hand, torn between my desperate need to find answers and the undeniable pull she exerted on me. "Sierra, I need to finish this. If I can just figure out?—"

"You can't help me if you collapse," she interrupted with her fingers on my lips. Her expression softened, and then she cupped my face in her hands. "I need you strong, Archer. Not burned out from pushing yourself past your limits."

The gentleness in her touch undid me more effectively than any argument could have. I leaned into her palm, my eyes closing briefly as exhaustion washed over me in a wave.

"I can't lose you," I admitted, the words raw and vulnerable in a way I rarely allowed myself to be. "I can't just sit by while this thing tears you apart from the inside."

Sierra's eyes welled with tears, but she blinked them back. "You're not going to lose me. But right now, I need my mate to come to bed." She held out her hand again. "Please."

The plea in her voice was my undoing. I looked at the scattered books and notes, knowing I should continue, knowing there might be crucial information waiting to be discovered. But Sierra was here, now, asking for me.

I slipped my dagger into its sheath and placed my hand in hers, allowing her to pull me to my feet. The room swayed alarmingly as I stood, and I had to brace myself against the table.

Sierra slid under my arm, her small body providing surprising support as she turned me toward the door. "See? This is exactly why I came looking for you. You're dead on your feet."

I allowed her to guide me from the library, my arm draped heavily across her shoulders. "The texts?—"

"Will still be there tomorrow," she finished for me. "After you've slept and eaten something." Her arm tightened around my waist. "I need you at your best, Archer. We all do."

The sincerity in her voice penetrated the fog of my exhaustion. She was right. I couldn't help anyone in this state. And yet, the fear of wasting precious time gnawed at me.

"Ten days isn't very long," I murmured, my feet moving automatically as we traversed the corridor toward our chambers.

"It's long enough," she replied with a confidence I wished I could share. "Especially if you're not driving yourself into the ground."

As we approached our bedroom door, I could sense Rowen and Callum inside. The knowledge that the rest of our strange, perfect family waited for us eased something tight in my chest. They were here. Sierra was here, solid and warm against my side.

For now, maybe that was enough.