The Warrior Prophet
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He tucks his wings into himself, but they are still so close I could touch them. He walks a small circle around me. Still a dance.
“That’s very different,” he says.
“I don’t see how. I am human. They are my people.”
He bends forward until his face is inches from mine. “Your mother had passed. You needed me. We’re allowed to appear when we are needed.”
“Really?” My eyes search his for a sign—any sign—of feelings for me. “She died ten moons ago.” Did only pity bring him? “Why did you stay?”
His voice is music, and his energy hums through me, making me bold. I couldn’t imagine him needing anyone, least of all me. With a smile, I glance at him and hold up the feathery filament. A small piece of his magic, its light sparkles and plays along my hand, the lines of his throat and jaw, the front of his tunic.
“If I return this,” I say. “What will you give me in exchange?”
“Well.” He frowns and thoughtfully strokes his chin, but his eyes are still smiling. “What do you want? Riches and jewels aren’t mine to command. I am but a humble servant.”
“Can you make it rain? It would be good for my father’s crops.”
“You know I cannot,” he scolds. “Doing so would be interfering.”
I do know, but enjoy the game, the way he looks at me as though he sees something hidden deep inside me, the secret of who I am.
“How about a kiss?” I ask.
He casts his gaze to the ground and bows his head. “Of course. A blessing.” He rests his hands on my shoulders, and even that light touch scorches me. White-hot like the sun.
Closing his eyes, he leans in to kiss my forehead, but I want a real kiss. Not the kiss of an angel, but of a lover. I rise to my toes, lifting my chin, and press my lips to his.