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“I’m glad you’re not dead.”
Hunt chuckled, letting himself bury his face against her neck. “So am I.”
Bryce’s fingers curled against his spine, exploring and gentle. Every single one of his senses narrowed to that touch. Came roaring awake. “We should get out of the rain,” she murmured.
“We should,” he replied. And made no move.
“Hunt.”
He couldn’t tell if his name was a warning or a request or something more. Didn’t care as he grazed his nose against the rain-slick column of her neck. Fuck, she smelled good.
He did it again, unable to help himself or get enough of that scent. She tipped her chin up slightly. Just enough to expose more of her neck to him.
Hel, yes. Hunt almost groaned the words as he let himself nuzzle into that soft, delicious neck, as greedy as a fucking vampyr to be there, smell her, taste her.
It overrode every instinct, every pained memory, every vow he’d sworn.
Bryce’s fingers tightened on his back—then began stroking. He nearly purred.
He didn’t let himself think, not as he brushed his lips over the spot he’d nuzzled. She arched slightly against him. Into the hardness that ached behind the reinforced leather of his battle-suit.
Swallowing another groan against her neck, Hunt tightened his arms around her warm, soft body, and ran his hands downward, toward that perfect, sweet ass that had tortured him since day fucking one, and—
The metal door to the roof opened. Hunt already had his gun drawn and aimed toward it as Sabine stepped out and snarled, “Back the fuck up.”
48
Hunt weighed his options carefully.
He had a gun pointed at Sabine’s head. She had a gun pointed at Bryce’s heart.
Which of them was faster? The question buzzed in his skull.
Bryce obeyed Sabine’s command, her hands raised. Hunt could only follow, stepping behind Bryce so she was up against his chest, so he could snake his free hand around her waist, pinning her against him. Could he get into the air fast enough to avoid a bullet?
Bryce wouldn’t survive a close-range shot to the heart. She’d be dead in seconds.
Bryce managed to ask over the drumming rain, “Where’s your little demon friend?”
Sabine kicked the door to the roof shut. The cameras had all been disabled, he realized. They had to be, or the legion would already be here, having been tipped off by Marrin. The feeds had to be looping on harmless footage—just as she’d done at Luna’s Temple. Which meant no one, absolutely no one, knew what was happening.
Hunt slowly began to bring his good arm up Bryce’s shaking, soaked body.
Sabine spat. “Don’t fucking think about it, Athalar.”
He stopped his arm before it could cover Bryce’s breasts—the heart beating beneath them. His battle-suit had enough armor to deflect a bullet. To let him absorb the impact. Better for him to lose an arm that he could regrow than for her to—
He couldn’t think the last word.
Sabine hissed, “I told you to stay away from this. And yet you just couldn’t listen—you had to show up at the Den, asking questions you have no right to ask.”
Bryce snarled, “We were asking those questions because you killed Danika, you fucking psycho.”
Sabine went wholly still. Nearly as still as the Fae could go. “You think I did what?”
Hunt knew Sabine wore every emotion on her face and had never once bothered to hide it. Her shock was genuine. Rain dripped off the narrow angles of her face as she seethed, “You think I killed my own daughter?”
Bryce was shaking so hard that Hunt had to tighten his grip, and she snapped, “You killed her because she was going to take your place as future Prime, you stole the Horn to undermine her, and you’ve been using that demon to kill anyone who might have seen you and to humiliate Micah before the Summit—”
