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of pity, that each would play the part of a kind suitor only long enough to assuage his conscience. So she’d repudiated them before they could do the same to her.
    She knew she’d been right about the motivations of at least one of those who had attempted to court her. But the others . . . perhaps she had been wrong. But one thing was indisputable—it had soon become “known” that Jessamy preferred her peace, that she was a scholar and a teacher. Everyone had forgotten she was also a woman, with hopes and dreams of a mate, a family, a home that wasn’t always so silent when night fell in a soft hush. She’d tried very hard to forget the truth herself because it hurt so much less.
    “I thought you had more courage than that, Jessamy.”
    Her nails cut into her palms. Hating her life at that moment, a life she’d built brick by brick, until she’d entombed herself in it, she stood, picked up the little bag Galen had packed with her things—such an unexpected, bewildering thing for him to do—and pulled the door open. “Your home,” she said, before her courage deserted her, “would be easier to guard?”
    Galen gave a small nod, the pure red of his hair sliding over his forehead before he shoved it back with an impatient hand. “It’s on the wall of the gorge. One entrance. No steps.”
    So she would have to permit him to fly her down in his arms.
    Continuing to watch her, Galen added, “It’s not far,” the wild sea of his eyes telling her he saw too much. “A heartbeat or two of flight.”
    Sweat broke out along her spine and she had to swallow twice before she could get the words out in a husky rasp. “All right.”
    Galen said nothing until they were on the very edge of the cliff overlooking the magnificent danger of the gorge. “Hold on,” he murmured, picking her up and tucking her against him with one arm bracing her back, the other under her thighs, “and think of all the bad words you know you want to call me.”
    Surprised delight filled her with laughter . . . just as he stepped off the cliff and angled down toward his aerie, his wings a stunning creation of light and shadow above them. The wind tugged at her gown, played with her hair, had her stomach falling for the infinitesimal amount of time they were in the air. When they landed, she glanced up with her lips still curved to find Galen looking down at her, a slow smile dawning on his face. “You aren’t afraid.”
    “What?” Dropping her bag to the ground, she waited for him to put her down—even as she barely resisted the urge to use their proximity to push back that too-long hair of his, the strands once more brushing his eyelashes. “No. That’s not why I don’t fly.”
    Galen continued to examine her with those eyes of ice and spring, until she had to answer, to confess a secret so terrible and deep, she’d never before spoken it to anyone, not even to Keir, who had known her for millennia. “It’s because I want it too much.”
    Vulnerability hit her on the heels of her confession, a punch to the gut that would’ve had her crumpling if she hadn’t been held in arms of heated, living iron. “Put me down.” She couldn’t bear to see pity mark the hard lines of his face.
    “Since I already know your secret,” Galen said instead, nuzzling his chin against her hair, “do you want to go flying?”
    Jessamy’s heart stopped. “It would only make the hunger worse,” she whispered, lifting a hand to brush back that thick, silken hair the color of the brilliant heart of a mountain sunset.
    “I can fly for hours without faltering.” He settled her even closer, the wild heat of him burning into her skin, infusing her blood. “And,” he murmured, holding her gaze, “you’ll be far safer in the air than anywhere else.”
    It terrified her, what he was offering. Not just his wings . . . but the molten emotion he made no effort to hide. It had nothing to do with pity. “Galen.”
    Bending his head, he spoke so