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Hunt closed his eyes.
Bryce swallowed and turned, nearly whipping Hunt in the face with her hair again. “Well, I heard that you had a special guest, so I asked Hunt to bring me so I could get a photo—”
“Do not lie.”
Hunt opened his eyes, then slowly turned to the Governor. “I had to pick up supplies and clothes. Isaiah gave me the go-ahead to bring her here.”
As if speaking his name had summoned him, the Commander of the 33rd pushed through the line of guards. Isaiah said, “It’s true, Your Grace. Hunt was grabbing necessities, and didn’t want to risk leaving Miss Quinlan alone while he did it.”
The Archangel looked at Isaiah, then Hunt. Then her.
Micah’s gaze roved over her body. Her face. She knew that gaze, that slow study.
Too fucking bad that Micah was about as warm as a fish at the bottom of a mountain lake.
Too fucking bad he’d used Hunt like a weapon, dangling his freedom like a dog treat.
Too fucking bad he often worked with her father on city matters, and on House business—too bad he reminded her of her father.
Boo. Fucking. Hoo.
She said to Micah, “It was nice to see you again, Your Grace.” Then the elevator doors opened, as if some god had willed them to make a good exit.
She nudged Hunt inside, and was following him in when a cold, strong hand gripped her elbow. She batted her eyelashes up at Micah as he stopped her between the elevator doors. Hunt didn’t seem to be breathing.
As if he were waiting for the Governor to rescind his deal.
But Micah purred, “I would like to take you to dinner, Bryce Quinlan.”
She pulled out of his grip, joining Hunt in the elevator. And as the doors closed, she looked the Archangel of Valbara full in the face. “Not interested,” she said.
Hunt had known Sandriel was coming, but running into her today … She must have wanted to surprise them all, if Isaiah hadn’t known. Wanted to catch the Governor and the legion off guard and see what this place was like before the pomp and circumstance made their defenses seem stronger, their wealth deeper. Before Micah could call in one of his other legions to make them look that much more impressive.
What piss-poor fucking luck that they’d run into her.
But at least Pollux hadn’t been there. Not yet.
The elevator shot up again, and Bryce stayed silent. Holding herself.
Not interested.
He doubted Micah Domitus had ever heard those words before.
He doubted Sandriel ever had someone snap photos of her like that.
All he’d been able to think about while he beheld Sandriel was the weight of his knife at his side. All he could smell was the reek of her arena, blood and shit and piss and sand—
Then Bryce had made her move. Played that irreverent, vapid party girl she wanted them to believe she was, that he’d believed she was, snapping those photos, giving him an out—
Hunt placed his hand against the disk beside the button panel and punched in a different floor, overriding wherever the elevator had been taking them. “We can leave from the landing.” His voice was like gravel. He always forgot—just how similar Sandriel and Shahar looked. Not identical twins, but their coloring and build had been nearly the same. “I’ll have to carry you, though.”
She twirled the silken length of her ponytail around a wrist, unaware that she bared the golden column of her throat to him with the movement.
Not interested.
She’d sounded certain. Not gleeful, not gloating, but … firm.
Hunt didn’t dare consider how this rejection might affect his bargain with Micah—to wonder if Micah would somehow blame Hunt for it.
