I ignored him and waited for instructions. None came. The guy bent at the knees, and, left foot back, right foot forward, he lifted his fists and positioned them at his chest level. Okay, so we’d spar with bare hands. This would suck. Resigned to my fate, I bared my teeth. A whistle sounded, and I charged. Having no strategy or experience, I practically ran into his fist. The world went dark, and I toppled onto the ground. The last thing I heard was my opponent’s laughter.
Groaning, I shook my head and pushed up on my elbows, blinking a few times, trying to clear my sight before I realized my eyes had swollen and my blurry vision afforded me no view. I got up and stood there, raised my hand, and touched my face. The cold made my hand shake and likely also kept the swelling down. So that was good, though I felt like I had a melon attached to my face and my face would explode.
The partially visible gate to the first level still stood open, so I walked toward there, bumping into people from left to right. Not as many people as before. Training must’ve ended. What time was it, and how long was I out?
I managed to walk through the gate and across the first courtyard, where the assembled angels slid out of my way.
One stepped in front of me. “Soldier,” he said. “What happened to you?”
“I got punched in the face.”
“Why aren’t you healed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Allow me,” a voice boomed from somewhere, and a blur of purple wings appeared before me. Raphael. He didn’t touch me. Heat seared across my nose, my eyes, until I felt lit on fire.
I cupped my face, gritting my teeth so I didn’t scream. Under my fingers, the swelling was retreating, and my nose snapped into place. Ouch! A warm hand touched my wrist and tugged. I dropped my hands and stared at him. Actually, I stared at his tanned bare chest, since he was much taller than I, around six-four. I looked up. Violet eyes, short black hair, and behind his back peeked wings somewhere between royal blue and purple. They were tipped in violet, the color that matched his eyes. He was beautiful.
Gently, his power stroked my face, but my skin prickled all over.
“There’s a stubborn scar on your right arm. I can smooth it out.”
That one was from the day I’d busted through the window as I tried running from Michael. “Thank you,” I said.
“Michael thinks scars give mortals personality.”
“Never mind what he thinks. You just go on and get rid of it.”
“Do mind what I think, Raphael,” Michael said from behind the angel. “Especially mind what I’m thinking right this moment.”
Raphael smiled, eyes twinkling. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
“Broken wings don’t suit you.”
Raphael rolled his eyes and stepped aside. Michael stood at the bottom step, black kilt waving wildly around his feet, wings spread, hair a golden aura, rocks, dirt, and miscellaneous objects lifting and circling the air around him.
He extended a hand, palm up, inviting me. “Approach.”
The yard grew quiet. Hundreds of eyes watched our exchange. I could walk away, or I could “approach.” For all intents and purposes, he was my commander. The faster I learned my place in this world, the faster I’d be able to defend myself and venture in search of my parents. Soldiers got released from duty sometimes. Didn’t they?
I took his hand and suppressed a sigh. Always warm and inviting.
He tucked my body to his side and folded a wing over me so that only my head peeked out. He cleared his throat. “It has come to my attention,” he addressed everyone, then paused. He looked around deliberately and calmly, but the threat I felt made me want to run. The other people must’ve felt something too, because several angels landed, and the mortal soldiers all stood at attention. “Good. This is good. It has come to my attention that this mortal has been mistreated today even though I have showed a clear preference for her well-being. Perhaps it was because I have showed preference that she was mistreated. Which of you has a problem with my preferences?” Michael’s voice carried on the wind. I bet people at every corner of the property heard him. Cue my tomato face.
The Ducklings knelt. The sergeant, head down, said, “Nobody, Commander.”
Behind my squad, the older squad I’d gone out with also knelt, and behind them, the angels, equipped in full battle gear including armor over their chests, bowed their heads.
I nudged Michael with my elbow. “It was one of my peers, and I’ll take care of it,” I whispered.
“Which one?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
Michael tsked. “I shall find out.”
“Oh no, don’t do that.”
He tucked me closer, the wing’s feathers ruffling. “I admit to temptation. I want to tear them all to pieces.”
Raphael approached to stand in front of Michael. “Killing a mere mortal is beneath you. So your girlfriend got beat up. Big deal. I fixed her, so let’s be done with this.”
“She isn’t my girlfriend.”
Ouch.
Under the wing, Michael snuck a warm palm beneath my uniform. His thumb stroked my bare skin. “As you were,” he announced.
People scattered. Michael kissed the top of my head and said, “Meet me in the baths.” Then he ascended, Raphael catching up to him, their argument clear even if one didn’t understand their native tongue.
Chapter Eighteen
For the longest time, I stood on those steps. It wasn’t until people bumped into me on their way down that I climbed to my room, though my squad still had hours of training left for the day.
Michael’s speech played in my head, the words she’s not my girlfriend spinning in circles and coming so often, they made me dizzy. Michael wasn’t a boy or a friend, so definitely not boyfriend material. I knew that, and yet, here I was, looking forward to our intimacy. He was so beautiful and
