Only when a sliver of light lit the horizon on fire did Aodhan take his first real breath in what felt like hours. Air stabbed into his lungs, filled his nostrils, made his skin ignite with life.
When he felt Illium begin to slide away his wing, he reached out and grabbed the other man’s wrist. Solid bone and warmth, the contact made his world shift the right way up for the first time in more than a year.
Then Illium’s muscles went rigid under his touch, his arm unmoving.
“Let go.” Illium’s voice was a harsh thing full of ground-up rocks as he gave an order he’d never before used on Aodhan. Not for this.
Aodhan never disregarded such requests. Never. But he had to force himself to lift his fingers from around Illium’s wrist one by one. And the words that should’ve come, they stuck in his chest, the silence between them a spiked mine that stabbed and cut.
The image was enough to smash an anvil into his chest, release his words. “What is wrong between us?” It came out almost angry.
Illium’s eyes were aglow when he looked at Aodhan, a sign of the violent power that shadowed him, and haunted all those who loved him. He was far too young for it, needed time yet to be part of Raphael’s Seven, to be a senior squadron commander, to be everyone’s playful Bluebell.
“There’s nothing wrong,” Illium said, his shoulders set as hard as his jaw, and his voice that of the senior squadron commander. Mature. Remote. Professional. It was a face that he’d never before turned toward Aodhan.
“Blue.” The old nickname was torn out of him.
Illium didn’t budge. “We’re just different people now,” he said.
It was a truth, but only a truth. They’d grown as people throughout their lives, yet always remained bonded in blood, their friendship so deep that nothing and no one could shake it. “You’re avoiding the question.”
“You told me you needed freedom.” Illium’s words were rough shards that sliced into them both, the distance exploding in a million deadly pieces. “That night during and after the dinner at Elena and Raphael’s Enclave home, you told me you wanted freedom. As if I was a cage.” He thumped a fisted hand against his chest. “So go, be free, Aodhan. This cage will never again hold you.”
Spreading wings of wild blue and silver in a violent snap, he rose up into the air before Aodhan could respond. He could’ve flown up after him, but no one could catch Illium when he didn’t want to be caught. Aodhan would wait, be patient. They’d be alone soon enough, and then they’d have this out.
Because he hadn’t ever implied that Illium was a cage, much less used the words Illium was trying to put into his mouth.
He remembered exactly what he’d said: I’m no longer a broken doll who needs to be protected from those who might play roughly with me.
Then later, when he’d tracked Illium down as he sat alone on one of the powerful columns that arched over Brooklyn Bridge: I don’t need to be tied to your apron strings any longer. I don’t need to be babied and kept safe from myself.
He’d been frustrated but no longer furious as he’d been at dinner. He’d needed his best friend to understand what he was trying to tell him, to see Aodhan as he was then and not as he’d once been.
But Illium, hurt by his earlier words, had been in no mood to listen.
If he could go back in time to that night, would he say the same? No. The apron strings comment had been out of line and Aodhan owned that. As for the rest . . . He wouldn’t use the term “broken doll” for that brought up a memory so ugly it should be forever forgotten. But the rest? The meaning behind it? Yes, he’d speak of that again. It had needed to be said.
22
Yesterday
Illium had just finished his sword training with Raphael—the archangel made him use a stubby wooden sword even though Illium had told him that he wouldn’t accidentally stab him or himself, but it was still the best fun. He hardly ever got to train with Raphael; he was an archangel, had lots of important business, and was often in his territory far, far away.
Mostly, Illium trained under people Raphael had chosen for the task.
But Raphael was the one who’d taught him his first skills—he’d spent an entire month with Illium for that, had even asked permission from Teacher Jessamy to take him out of school for it!
It had been amazing.
And even though he couldn’t spend so many days with Illium often, he always made time for a session or sometimes even two whenever he was in the Refuge. Today, he’d been waiting at the house when Illium flew home from school; he’d been seated at Illium’s mother’s table while she sketched him. In front of him had been a plate of cookies, and a glass of milk.