Eternal Sin (Primal Sin #2) - Ariana Nash Page 0,78

and demon, and it wasn’t wrong. It was fated. Their love, it was always meant to be this way. Mikhail folded an arm around Severn and buried his face against his neck. Severn stroked his hair. He sighed, so thoroughly spent, but his soul had never felt so light. He could stay like this, in his demon’s arms, forever. But it was not over, and the guardians would stop at nothing to see them separated—to see Severn killed. Mikhail tightened his hold, suddenly fearful that Seraphim and Aerius’s story might repeat itself in them.

“I am sorry,” Mikhail whispered against his neck, “for the horrors myself and my angels have inflicted upon you and your people. We were wrong. We’ve been wrong through all of it.”

Severn’s grip tightened. “I know, but demons are not without blame. I am not without blame.” Severn looked him in the eyes, and by the great god, Seraphim, Severn had never looked more beautiful. “Can we begin again? Here, now, on this rooftop? Angel and demon?”

The raw desperation in his eyes made Mikhail's heart ache. “Here and now.”

Severn’s mouth smothered Mikhail’s, and Mikhail welcomed it, relishing the kiss, effortlessly falling into it with all he had.

Severn broke free first and bumped his forehead against Mikhail’s. “I love you so hard it hurts.”

It was true. Love did hurt, in all ways. He was beginning to understand a lot of things now he’d given himself permission to love. But convincing two sides of an endless war to love would be far more difficult.

“They destroyed the book, Severn. We are all the proof there is.” Even with the borrowed power, how could they convince the world that love was the way forward?

Severn threaded his fingers with Mikhail’s and smiled his lopsided, knowing smile. “Not all the proof…”

Chapter 33

Severn

He couldn’t stop smiling. It was absurd. A grown demon, not a pup, and he grinned every time he laid eyes on Mikhail, or when he recalled precisely how the avenging guardian angel had saved his ass instead of trying to kill it. Or how they’d left Haven in ruins. That place had long been overdue a revolution, and it was so fucking ironic that the one thing it was built to eradicate had brought it down: Love.

He half expected Mikhail to turn around, admit it had all been a joke, and take Severn’s head with his stolen blade. A demon might have, but not Mikhail. Every word, every touch, every hand in his, every tiny little smile—barely lifting the lips but real—was true. As true as their destined love.

Destiny had been right all along.

They left the rooftop in the human city of Bristol and returned to the little cottage, much to the delight of Mary and Barrie. On seeing their Haven clothing, Barrie had immediately offered Mikhail one of his tropical-themed shirts, this one patterned with pineapples. The yellow surprisingly complimented Mikhail’s black hair.

No sooner was he in the shirt than Severn imagined him out of it, but Mikhail was weary, his eyes tired, so they retired to the cottage.

A red sunset blazed across the grass fields. Severn checked there was nobody in the fields and freed his wings with a sigh, spreading them wide to soak up the sun’s fading light. It felt good to have them stretched out and on display. The cut to his waist stung as his body bore the wings, but Mikhail’s miraculous touch had healed the worst of it.

The soft flap of feathers drew his eye, and Mikhail landed gently in the grass beside him, tucking his now-normal wings in to keep them from gathering grass seed.

Mikhail reached for the tip of Severn’s right wing. “May I?”

Severn nodded, afraid his voice might crack if he spoke, and then Mikhail’s hand stroked over the trailing edge and up, toward the joint. “Remarkable.”

Severn’s knees weakened. He liked the wings. More than liked, if his expression was true, which of course it was because this was Mikhail.

Color rushed to Severn’s face. He winced at his sudden attack of shyness and bowed his head. He did not get shy. Or, at least, he hadn’t in years. But having Mikhail admire his wings was a whole kind of personal mixed with fear because of their past, and pride because his new wings, what he’d seen of them, were stunning and they were his, and he still couldn’t believe he had wings again.

Mikhail’s hand stroked over the right wing, venturing more toward the joint at Severn’s back. Severn lifted his head,