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Hunt rolled his eyes and aimed for the doorway. “I just like my balls where they are.”
Viktoria notified Hunt that evening that she was still running the diagnostic. The Fae’s Mimir tech was thorough enough that it’d take a good while to run.
He prayed the results wouldn’t be as devastating as he expected.
He’d messaged Bryce about it while she finished up work, chuckling when he saw that she’d again changed her contact information in his phone: Bryce Is a Queen.
They stayed up until midnight binge-watching a reality show about a bunch of hot young Vanir working at a beach club in the Coronal Islands. He’d refused at first—but by the end of the first hour, he’d been the one pressing play on the next episode. Then the next.
It hadn’t hurt that they’d gone from sitting on opposite ends of the sectional to being side by side, his thigh pressed against hers. He might have toyed with her braid. She might have let him.
The next morning, Hunt was just following Bryce toward the apartment elevator when his phone rang. He took one look at the number and grimaced before picking up. “Hi, Micah.”
“My office. Fifteen minutes.”
Bryce pressed the elevator button, but Hunt pointed to the roof door. He’d fly her to the gallery, then head to the CBD. “All right,” he said carefully. “Do you want Miss Quinlan to join us?”
“Just you.” The line went dead.
54
Hunt took a back entrance into the tower, careful to avoid any area that Sandriel might be frequenting. Isaiah hadn’t picked up, and he knew better than to keep calling until he did.
Micah was staring out the window when he arrived, his power already a brewing storm in the room. “Why,” the Archangel asked, “are you running Fae tests on old evidence down at the lab?”
“We have good reason to think the demon we identified isn’t the one behind Danika Fendyr’s death. If we can find what actually did kill her, it might lead us to whoever summoned it.”
“The Summit is in two weeks.”
“I know. We’re working as hard as we can.”
“Are you? Drinking at a whiskey bar with Bryce Quinlan counts as working?”
Asshole. “We’re on it. Don’t worry.”
“Sabine Fendyr called my office, you know. To rip my head off about being a suspect.” There was nothing humane behind those eyes. Only cold predator.
“It was a mistake, and we’ll own up to that, but we had sufficient cause to believe—”
“Get. The. Job. Done.”
Hunt gritted out, “We will.”
Micah surveyed him coolly. Then he said, “Sandriel has been asking about you—about Miss Quinlan, too. She’s made me a few generous offers to trade again.” Hunt’s stomach became leaden. “I’ve turned her down so far. I told her that you’re too valuable to me.”
Micah threw a file on the table, then turned back to the window.
“Don’t make me reconsider, Hunt.”
Hunt read through the file—the silent order it conveyed. His punishment. For Sabine, for taking too long, for just existing. A death for a death.
He stopped at the barracks to pick up his helmet.
Micah had written a note in the margin of the list of targets, their crimes. No guns.
So Hunt grabbed a few more of his black-hilted daggers, and his long-handled knife, too.
Every movement was careful. Deliberate. Every shift of his body as he donned his black battle-suit quieted his mind, pulling him farther and farther from himself.
