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Everything in her stilled at the sound of her celestial name. The defiant spark in her eyes flickered and gave way to recognition. A deep visceral fear then resonated through our tether, mirroring my dawning horror.

She hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in centuries. Neither had I.

Her lips parted in a soundless gasp. “Remiel,” she drawled, a tremor beneath the word, “you’re going to scare off my…company.” She glanced past me and at the demon, who watched with dark amusement. “I’m fine.” She forced a lightness into her tone. “Just my…bodyguard. He gets twitchy.”

The demon smirked, waved dismissively, and ambled off, clearly bored.

The moment he was gone, I tightened my grip and pulled her into the nearest shadowed alcove, pressing her back into the damp stone wall.

She slapped me. Hard.

My head snapped to the side, the sting blooming. A part of me thought she enjoyed it. Another part knew I might have deserved it.

“Don’t you ever,” she hissed, her low voice trembling with rage, “call me that fucking name again.”

I should’ve stepped back. I didn’t. Fueled by spite and jealousy, I grabbed her jaw. My hand felt too large, my grip too tight. Cruel.

For one unbearable heartbeat, I saw fear in her eyes. Fear of me. And in the dark mirror of her gaze, I caught the reflection of my own eyes, burning gold with a fury toward her.

I could hurt her. I wanted to.

That thought hollowed me out.

This wasn’t holy rage or divine fire. It was hunger. Envy. It was a desire that burned where no angel should ever burn.

The sins whispered through my veins, one by one. Wrath. Envy. Lust. Pride. I had thought myself above them. But I was sinking, still drowning in them.

What kind of angel felt this way? What kind of guardian clawed at the edge of ruin, still reaching for the one thing he had no right to hold?

I wasn’t just angry. I was petrified. Every second she spent here was a second closer to the moment the darkness swallowed her whole. And if I pushed too hard, if I tried to explain the horror I’d seen, I knew she would snap.

My fingers trembled. I released her jaw, snatching my hand back as if I was burned.

I wanted to tell her. The words were right there, burning in my throat. That I saw the projection. I saw what they did to her. That I saw the ring killing her. I wanted to beg her to listen, to let me save her from the trap she was walking into. But when I looked at her, at the hate burning in her eyes, the words died.

She wouldn’t believe me. She would think it was another lie to control her.

Shame washed over me, cold and sickening. My voice, when it came, was guttural. “You want the fucking cuffs off?”

Without waiting for an answer, I reached for her wrists, my hands shaking. A sharp twist, a pulse of focused intent. One snap. Then the other. The silver metal fell into my hand like broken chains.

She stood there, rubbing her bare wrists and watching me with unreadable eyes. “Finished?” she asked, her voice level yet edged. “With your celestial tantrum…”

The shame now felt like a physical weight.

Then, as if nothing had happened, she slowly exhaled and stepped out of the alcove, holding my gaze. “That warlock near the clock tower?” she said calmly. “Relay point. Confirmed seraph energy signatures moving toward the Old Jewish Cemetery two weeks ago.”

What? I stared, trying to reconcile her disdainful lingering with this cold intel.

“The man on the bench you glared at?” she pressed. “Water sprite. Confirmed a powerful glamour over the Čertovka recently—hiding something substantial in the canal. There are rumors about Lysanthe’s body in the canal.”

A beat passed.

“And that demon you nearly tackled me from?” Her lip curled. “Blood broker. Confirmed a large unusual order—binding ritual components—was delivered to a blood den near the Powder Tower three weeks ago. Just before Lysanthe vanished. And guess who escorted a disoriented female fitting her description from that den?” She paused. “A tall man. Impeccable coat. Long white hair.”

Valden.

“Oh!” She pulled a crumpled address from her pocket with a glint in her eye. “And the specter alchemist? Specializes in analyzing…conflicted essences. All gathered while you were busy stewing. And now, if you’ll excuse this mere fallen woman”—her voice became quiet but absolute—“kindly fuck off, Remiel.”