His body was fatless, pale as milk, shimmering with sweat. All covered in that weird hairless inhuman skin, gleaming across his pecs and shoulders and hipbones, darker and rougher in texture toward his waistband. His biceps and shoulders, slender but curved with muscle, vanished beneath the shirt as he shrugged it on. Collarbones arched like wings above a lean chest that tapered to narrow hips and sinuously rippled abdomen; a flat mark, like a scar, shone where a navel should be. He looked both graceful and powerful, his body somehow eloquent as a dancer’s.

And then Oberon closed his shirt.

Oh shit, that was way, way too hot. He hadn’t been that moved by a glimpse of a shirtless chest in years. He would have turned around and gone right back up the stairs, but Logan the goon gave him a nudge. Ángel cleared his dry throat and continued down.

“A grounds crew is here to do some work,” said Chandler, crisp in her usual navy suit. “They got here early; I apologize for interrupting your morning routine.” She spoke to Oberon, who was now buttoning his cuffs, but Ángel decided to assume it included waking him up as well. “We haven’t had time to check them all out, so we’d like you to go down to the wine cellar until they’re gone.”

“All right.” Oberon glanced around, found Ángel with his eyes, then turned back to Chandler. “What are they doing?”

“General maintenance to get ready for winter,” she said. “Fertilizing the lawn, clearing the gutters, that sort of thing. Draining the pool.” She, too, glanced at Ángel as she said this, and he smiled at her.

“Qué vergüenza,” he said. “I was looking forward to my daily swim.”

Chandler clearly did not find him amusing. “They should be done by this afternoon. Someone will bring you some food.”

They headed for the stairs down to the wine cellar. In passing, Ángel said to Chandler, “I’ll have bacon and scrambleds, whole wheat toast, and keep the coffee coming. Thanks.”

She visibly restrained herself from shoving him down the stairs.

The wine cellar was a picturesquely arched room, dimly lit and rather chilly, its whitewashed stone walls sporting a mural of Pan and his satyrs frolicking among grape vines. Dusty racks were empty of wine. There wasn’t any furniture, either.

Ángel and Oberon sat on the floor, leaning against opposite walls. Ángel hugged his knees and closed his eyes.

He could smell Oberon.

The fae was still warm from exercise, patches of sweat soaking through his black shirt, and his scent filled the enclosed space. Ángel had noticed a toasted-bread smell around him before. This odor was headier, more pungent, and somehow spicy. Musky, like a man, but also . . . cinnamony, a little. Or nutmeg or something. It was a really good smell—only not like food. It was kind of sexy.

This was bad.