“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.
His phone buzzed on his desk, and he glanced at it only long enough to see that Bryce Is a Queen had written to him: Everything okay?
Hunt slid on his black gloves.
His phone buzzed again.
I’m going to order in dumpling soup for lunch. Want some?
Hunt turned the phone over, blocking the screen from view. As if it’d somehow stop her from learning what he was doing. He gathered his weapons with centuries of efficiency. And then donned the helmet.
The world descended into cool calculations, its colors dimmed.
Only then did he pick up his phone and write back to Bryce, I’m good. I’ll see you later.
She’d written back by the time he reached the barracks landing pad. He’d watched the typing bubble pop up, vanish, then pop up again. Like she’d written out ten different replies before settling on Okay.
Hunt shut off his phone as he shouldered his way through the doors and into the open air.
He was a stain against the brightness. A shadow standing against the sun.
A flap of his wings had him skyborne. And he did not look back.
Something was wrong.
Bryce had known it the moment she realized she hadn’t heard from him after an hour in the Comitium.
The feeling had only worsened at his vague response to her message. No mention of why he’d been called in, what he was up to.
As if someone else had written it for him.
She’d typed out a dozen different replies to that not-Hunt message.
Please tell me everything is okay.
Type 1 if you need help.
Did I do something to upset you?
What’s wrong?
Do you need me to come to the Comitium?
Turning down an offer of dumpling soup—did someone steal this phone?
On and on, writing and deleting, until she’d written, I’m worried. Please call me. But she had no right to be worried, to demand those things of him.
So she’d settled with a pathetic Okay.
And had not heard back from him. She’d checked her phone obsessively the whole workday.
Nothing.
Worry was a writhing knot in her stomach. She didn’t even order the soup. A glance at the roof cameras showed Naomi sitting there all day, her face tight.
Bryce had gone up there around three. “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?” she asked, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
Naomi looked her over. “Hunt is fine,” she said. “He …” She stopped herself, reading something on Bryce’s face. Surprise flickered in her eyes. “He’s fine,” the angel said gently.
By the time Bryce got home, with Naomi stationed on the adjacent rooftop, she had stopped believing her.
So she’d decided to Hel with it. To Hel with caution or looking cool or any of it.
Standing in her kitchen as the clock crept toward eight, she wrote to Hunt, Please call me. I’m worried about you.
There. Let it shoot into the ether or wherever the messages floated.
She walked Syrinx one final time for the night, her phone clutched in her hand. As if the harder she gripped it, the more likely he’d be to respond.
It was eleven by the time she broke, and dialed a familiar number. Ruhn picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”
How he knew, she didn’t care. “I …” She swallowed.
“Bryce.” Ruhn’s voice sharpened. Music was playing in the background, but it began to shift, as if he were moving to a quieter part of wherever he was.
“Have you seen Hunt anywhere today?” Her voice sounded thin and high.
In the background, Flynn asked, “Is everything okay?”
Ruhn just asked her, “What happened?”
“Like, have you seen Hunt at the gun range, or anywhere—”
The music faded. A door slammed. “Where are you?”
“Home.” It hit her then, the rush of how stupid this was, calling him, asking if Ruhn, of all people, knew what the Governor’s personal assassin was doing.
“Give me five minutes—”