Page 3 of Fated Wings
Hard pass. Newt inched along the ceiling and tried to look non-threatening. Hard to do while glowing faintly pink and bleeding anxiety.
Blond’s gaze flicked between them then softened in a way that said he wanted to offer cookies. “Hi,” he stage-whispered for some reason. “I’m Preston. The other short guy is Jalen.” He thumbed toward the mountain of a man glowering at Newt. “That’s Vaughn.”
Vaughn. The name fit him. Broad shoulders rolled once, a tiny shift that said his skin didn’t fit right either. He stared at Newt too long, like he was sizing him up for a hole he would dig later.
“Don’t—” Newt started, though what he intended to forbid he wasn’t sure. Breathing? Looking? Existing that large?
A low curse scraped out of Vaughn. He cut a hand through the air like he could slice the moment in half then strode away. He vanished around the corner, the sound of him receding making something deep inside Newt ache.
The sensation landed then, the way truths sometimes did. That powerful tug inside him hadn’t been terror being dramatic. It had lines and direction. It pointed straight through plaster and anger to the shape that had just stalked off.
Mate.
His first time in the human realm and Newt had broken into a stranger’s house at night, terrified residents, knocked the picture frames drunk, and apparently met his forever person.
His father might as well start on that second child, because he was going to kill Newt over this.
* * * *
Shadows pooled in the corners of the kitchen where the overhead light didn’t quite reach, and each time a darker patch shifted, Vaughn’s muscles tightened like he would be dragged through one of them.
The counter steadied him better than breathing ever could. He pressed both palms flat against the cool granite, arms locked, shoulders hunched, staring out the kitchen window until the darkness threw his own reflection back at him.
Haunted. Hollow-eyed. Vaughn barely recognized himself.
And now his mate was in the next room.
Of course fate would throw glitter and wings at him when his head felt like a room someone had ransacked and never cleaned up. Vaughn could barely handle a grocery list these days.
Sleep was something he hadn’t accomplished much of for months. A voice whispered through his mind, asking if he remembered the taste of metal and fear.
He did. Frequently.
Zeppelin should’ve demoted him months ago, handed the beta title to someone whose hands didn’t shake when lights flickered. He'd been reduced to a wolf shifter who jumped at creaks and spent half the night pretending the hallway wasn’t hostile territory.
Real beta material.
Somewhere outside, boots thudded steadily, the pack fighting vampires. That should’ve included him, not a man hiding out in his own kitchen from a flying problem he had no clue what to do with.
Pathetic didn’t begin to cover it.
A prickle crawled along Vaughn’s nape. He glanced up.
The little fae hovered near the ceiling like some tiny satellite, peeking around the corner the way a kid might check for monsters. His hair caught the under-cabinet lights and threw back a soft wash of blue with a kiss of pink at the tips. Big, guileless eyes—violet, for fuck’s sake—took in the kitchen like it might bite.
Small frame, all tight lines and quick, nervous energy under a torn shirt, and somehow still managing to look like trouble had never laid a finger on him.
The sight of that tear made Vaughn’s jaw tick.
Why had vampires been after something this small? But he already knew the answer. Fae blood. A scent that turned predators stupid with hunger.
“The floor’s safer than the ceiling,” Vaughn said, voice kept low so he wouldn’t scare his mate. “For the light fixtures, if nothing else.”
Instead of answering, the fae made a small curious sound and pointed at the stove. Vaughn blinked as the guy hovered lower, eyes bright like little moons.
“What’s that?” he asked. “The box with the glowing numbers?”
Curiosity tugged the fae closer. He stayed high but drifted over the doorway like a wary balloon, the glow from the kitchen lights washing his skin warm.
