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“So, wings.” Eames rubs his back. He glances at Arthur’s striking blue-black plumage and then his own tawny brown feathers, olive green if you catch them in the light. “You couldn’t have given me prettier wings?”
Arthur nudges Eames’ chin up with a finger and smiles. “Form and function, Mr. Eames. These wings aren’t simply for show.” He flares his wings, royal indigo flashing iridescent, like they are an extension of his body.
Eames swallows. With his wings spread out, Arthur looks magnificent, regal even. “Then tell me. What purpose do they serve, darling?”
Arthur’s gaze burns. “To attract you.”