head using the handle of the angelblade. Mikhail’s eyes rolled, his body dropping into Remiel’s grip. His wings sagged, limp and useless.
Severn had been falling, he’d been about to die—he’d lived a lifetime in a blink, when he’d known with absolutely certainty that it was all over—and then Mikhail had caught him. Saved him. Hauled him back to safety and pulled his bindings free. Impossible. Wonderful.
Then blood, and a blade, and Mikhail with a sword through his middle… It happened too fast.
Remiel twisted, lifted Mikhail’s dead weight, and dropped him over the edge.
Mikhail’s lifeless body pitched over the side. Black wings vanished.
No… No!
Remiel lunged for Severn, blade thrust out, wings ablaze in sunlight. Shouts rose, blades clashed, but it didn’t matter because Mikhail was falling!
Severn ran, wedged his foot on the edge of the ledge, and leaped into the sky.
Momentum carried him so far, and then gravity grabbed hold of him and pulled. His gut lurched, and the wind rushed, tearing at his body, his hair, his clothes, tossing him over and under himself.
He desperately looked for black wings against blue skies. There. Limp wings—suddenly swallowed by cloud. Severn tucked his arms into his sides and dove. With no wings of his own, he flew light and free, plunging through the air so fast it stole his breath and burned his eyes. Wet clouds dashed his face, suddenly cold, blurring his vision. He only had one thought: get to Mikhail. Wake him, somehow. Before their bodies shattered against London’s skyline.
There, just ahead, Mikhail tumbled, his enormous wings tipped at odd angles, twirling him. Severn reached out and grabbed a fistful of feathers. The shift in weight tipped them both over, Mikhail flipping on his back and Severn falling beneath him. Severn pulled on the wing, climbing along its arch. Wind howled, and his lungs screamed their agony at not being able to catch enough air. London spread far and wide in every direction. A hard landscape of gray.
“Mikhail…” Severn grasped at where the wing joined Mikhail’s back and pulled himself in, clutching a hold around his waist so his mouth pressed to Mikhail’s ear. “Wake up!” Or we’re both going to die.
London’s swathe of gray grew ever bigger.
Death would be quick.
Severn would die with Mikhail, and while he’d known he would die today, he couldn’t allow Mikhail to die too. There was still too much for him to do. “I love you. I won’t leave you. Wake up, Mikhail.”
One of Mikhail’s wings flipped, tipping them over, and Severn clung on, closing his eyes, breathing in the scent of sunshine and feathers. It would be all right. Maybe the demons would figure it all out without him. Maybe Solo would go on to kiss another angel. If demons were meant to love, then the truth would find a way. Eventually.
But he would not be a part of it. And neither would Mikhail.
An angel and a demon, their love shattered.
It wasn’t right.
Gods, none of this was right.
It should not have been this way.
Had he told Mikhail the truth, had he found another way to reach him, all of this could have been prevented.
It wasn’t right, and he couldn’t do a damn thing to fix it, and damn destiny for leading him to this wretched moment. What had it all been for if it ended here? Rage and injustice scorched his veins.
London’s spires and high-rises blurred into sight, so close now.
Damn you, Seraphim, you bastard, for making us love! Damn you to Haven and back. You deserved to die saving Aerius. Because he deserved better than an angel!
Pain tore down Severn’s back. He arched away, hearing his own screams. A terrible weight slammed into him, and for a blinding second, he thought he’d hit the ground, but he was still falling, still had Mikhail clutched in his arms, the big angel’s wings uselessly flailing, raining feathers in their wake.
But his wings weren’t alone. Leathery demon wings curled in, encircling them both.
Demon wings?
His wings?
His wings!
Severn flung them open. Agony scorched his spine. He cried out but clutched control of the impossible appendages and tilted, twisted, rolling in the air so he had Mikhail tucked against his chest. London’s unforgiving streets continued to rush up to greet them. Severn flapped his wings, inducing the kind of raging pain that almost blacked him out. He flapped again, but they still fell too fast. Locking his wings stretched outward, he finally caught the air. Gravity tried to yank Mikhail from his arms or snap his wings in