Bryce switched to a show about buying vacation houses unseen and watched without really processing it.
When was the last time she’d read a book? Not for work or research, but for pleasure? She’d read loads before everything with Danika, but that part of her brain had just turned off afterward.
She’d wanted to drown out any sort of calm and quiet. The blaring television had become her companion to drive the silence away. The dumber the show, the better.
She nestled into the cushions, Syrinx curling up tightly against her leg as she scratched at his velvet-soft ears. He wriggled in a request for more.
The silence pushed in, tighter and thicker. Her mouth dried out, her limbs going light and hollow. The events at the Den threatened to begin looping, Ithan’s cold face at the forefront.
She peered at the clock. Barely five thirty.
Bryce blew out a long breath. Lehabah was wrong—this wasn’t like that winter. Nothing could ever be as bad as that first winter without Danika. She wouldn’t let it.
She stood, Syrinx huffing with annoyance at being disturbed.
“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, pointing toward the hall and his crate.
Throwing her a baleful look, the chimera saw himself into his cage, yanking the metal door shut with a hooked claw.
Bryce locked it, reassuring him again that she wouldn’t be out for long, and slipped back into her heels. She’d promised Hunt she would stay put—had sworn it on the gods.
Too bad the angel didn’t know that she no longer prayed to any of them.
Hunt had drunk all of half a beer when his phone rang.
He knew exactly what had happened before he picked up. “She left, didn’t she?”
Naomi let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. All glammed up, too.”
“That’s how she usually is,” he grumbled, rubbing his temple.
Down the carved oak bar, Vik arched a graceful eyebrow, her halo shifting with the movement. Hunt shook his head and reached for his wallet. He shouldn’t have come out tonight. The offer had been thrown to him so many times these past four years, and he’d never gone, not when it had felt so much like being in the 18th again. But this time, when Isaiah had called with his standard caveat （I know you’ll say no, but …） he’d said yes.
He didn’t know why, but he’d gone.
Hunt asked, “Where’d she head?”
“I’m tracking her now,” Naomi said, the wind rustling on her end of the line. She hadn’t asked questions when Hunt had called her an hour ago to ask that she guard Bryce—and give up her spot in tonight’s hangout. “Looks like she’s headed toward FiRo.”
Maybe she was seeking out her cousin for an update. “Stay close, and keep your guard up,” he said. He knew he didn’t need to say it. Naomi was one of the most talented warriors he’d ever encountered, and took no shit from anyone. One look at her tightly braided black hair, the colorful tattoo that covered her hands, and the array of weapons on her muscled body and most people didn’t dare to tangle with her. Maybe even Bryce would have obeyed an order to stay put, if Naomi had been the one to give it. “Send me your coordinates.”
“Will do.” The line went dead.
Hunt sighed. Viktoria said, “You should have known better, friend.”
Hunt ran his hands through his hair. “Yeah.”
Beside him, Isaiah swigged from his beer. “You could let Naomi handle her.”
“I have a feeling that would result in them unleashing Hel together, and I’d still need to go end their fun.”
Vik and Isaiah chuckled, and Hunt dropped a silver mark on the bar. Viktoria held up a hand in protest, but Hunt ignored it. They might all be slaves, but he could pay for his own damn drink. “I’ll see you two later.”
Isaiah raised his beer in salute, and Viktoria gave him a knowing smile before Hunt elbowed his way through the packed bar. Justinian, playing pool in the back, lifted a hand in farewell. Hunt had never asked why all of them preferred the tight quarters of the street-level bar to one of the rooftop lounges most angels frequented. He supposed he wouldn’t get the chance to learn why tonight.
Hunt wasn’t surprised that Bryce had bailed. Frankly, the only thing that surprised him was that she’d waited this long.
He shouldered through the leaded glass door and out onto the muggy street beyond. Patrons drank at reclaimed oak barrels, and a raucous group of some sort of shifter pack—perhaps wolves or one of the big cats—puffed away on cigarettes.
Hunt scowled at the reek that chased him into the sky, then frowned again at the clouds rolling in from the west, the heavy scent of rain already on the wind. Fantastic.