There was something more, too, something so tiny that it was almost lost in the fire of the larger pieces.
A crimson tear welled from the hawk’s eye.
Silently, Hawk went even closer, staring at the tiny teardrop. On its surface was etched the faint, delicate outline of a rosebud. More suggestion than reality, more hope than certainty, the emerging rose told Hawk more than he had believed he would ever know about love.
Hawk stared at the crimson tear until he could no longer see it. He hadn’t believed in love, yet he had held it in his arms time and again, heard love call his name in ecstasy, felt love hot and sweet and unafraid around him . . .
And then he had turned and walked away, afraid to risk and love in return.
He could see that now, see it as clearly as sunlight pouring through glass, shattered fragments of the past transformed into a beauty that tore at his soul mercilessly, making room for love to live and grow.
Motionless, Hawk absorbed light and color into himself until the muted cry of bells called to him. When he turned around, he saw Angel’s hand move restlessly over the empty bed as though searching for something.
He went back to the bed in a silent, gliding stride and gathered Angel against himself, understanding finally why he had returned, knowing that he would never leave her again. He had learned what love was.
It was an angel who loved a hawk enough to offer him everything, risk everything, give everything in the hope that even a bird of prey could learn to love.
He had learned, too, that the hawk was neither cold nor cruel, simply the instrument of an angel’s awakening, an awakening that was both agonizing and beautiful. The hawk shared in the beauty, and in the pain.
And in the awakening.
Silver bells shivered and sighed as Angel instinctively moved closer to the naked warmth of Hawk’s body. He kissed her very gently, cherishing her.
Her eyes opened, shadows and brilliance focusing on him, disbelief and incredible hope combined.
Hawk bent his dark head toward the bright golden cloud of Angel’s hair.
“Hawk . . . ?”
“I love you, Angel.”
Hawk joined the heat and sweetness of Angel’s mouth with his own, retreating only long enough to whisper his love again and again, love returned by her soft lips, words and caresses mingling until he became a part of her.
With slow, sensual movements they rediscovered what they had lost, cherishing and consuming and renewing each other, words transformed into soft cries of ecstasy and completion. And then sounds became words again,
I love you
whispered amid the shiver of silver bells.
Bathed in colored shadows, wrapped in each other’s arms, the woman who had no lies and the man who finally had found truth slept deeply, their pain transformed into peace by the healing power of love.