“Not ones for talking, are you?” Her voice held a musical quality, as if it had been crafted from silver bells. “I suppose my predecessor had rules quite different from mine.” She drummed her fingers on the desk, nails tinted a soft pink. “Allow me to make this clear: I do not wish for subservience. I want my triarii to be my partners. I want you to work alongside me to protect this city and territory, and help it meet its great potential.”
A pretty little speech. Hunt said nothing. Did she know what he’d done to Sandriel? What Bryce had done to Micah? What Micah had done in his quest to supposedly protect this territory?
Celestina wrapped a curl around a finger, her immaculate wings shifting. “I see that I shall have to do a great deal of work to earn your trust.”
Hunt kept his face bland, even as he wished that she’d be equally as forthright as Micah. He’d always hated his owners who’d disguised their dead souls in pretty speeches. This could easily be part of a game: to get them to trust her, come limping into her soft arms, and then spring the trap. Make them suffer.
Naomi’s sharp chin lifted. “We don’t wish to offend you, Your Grace—”
“Call me Celestina,” the Archangel interrupted. “I abhor formalities.” Micah had said the same thing once. Hunt had been a fool to buy it then.
Isaiah’s wings shifted—like his friend was thinking the same.
His friend, who still bore the halo tattoo across his brow. Isaiah was the better male, the better leader—and still a slave. Rumors had swirled in the months before Micah’s demise that the Archangel would free him soon. That possibility was now as dead as Micah himself.
Naomi nodded, and Hunt’s heart tightened at the tentative hope in his friend’s jet-black eyes. “We don’t wish to offend you … Celestina. We and the 33rd are here to serve you.”
Hunt suppressed his bristle. Serve.
“The only way you could offend me, Naomi Boreas, would be to withhold your feelings and thoughts. If something troubles you, I want to know about it. Even if the matter is due to my own behavior.” She smiled again. “We’re partners. I’ve found that such a partnership worked wonders on my legions in Nena. As opposed to the … systems my fellow Archangels prefer.”
Torture and punishment and death. Hunt blocked out the sear of white-hot iron rods pounding his back, roasting his skin, splitting it down to the bone as Sandriel watched from her divan, popping grapes into her mouth—
Isaiah said, “We’re honored to work with you, then.”
Hunt pushed aside the bloody, screaming horrors of the past as another lovely smile bloomed on the Governor. “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you, Isaiah Tiberian. I’d like you to stay on as leader of the 33rd, if that is what you wish.”
Isaiah bowed his head in thanks, a tentative, answering smile gracing his face. Hunt tried not to gape. Was he the only asshole who didn’t believe any of this?
Celestina turned her gaze upon him. “You have not yet spoken, Hunt Athalar. Or do you wish to go by Orion?”
“Hunt is fine.” Only his mother had been allowed to call him Orion. He’d keep it that way.
She surveyed him again, elegant as a swan. “I understand that you and Micah did not necessarily see eye to eye.” Hunt reined in his urge to growl in agreement. Celestina seemed to read his inclination. “On another day, I’d like to learn about your relationship with Micah and what went wrong. So we might avoid such a situation ourselves.”
“What went wrong is that he tried to kill my—Bryce Quinlan.” Hunt couldn’t stop the words, or his stumble.
Naomi’s brows nearly touched her hairline at his outburst, but Celestina sighed. “I heard about that. I’m sorry for any pain you and Miss Quinlan suffered as a result of Micah’s actions.”
The words hit him like stones. I’m sorry. He’d never, not in all the centuries he’d lived, heard an Archangel utter those words.
Celestina went on, “From what I’ve gathered, you have chosen to live with Miss Quinlan, rather than in the barracks tower.”
Hunt kept his body loose. Refused to yield to the tension rising in him. “Yeah.”
“I am perfectly fine with that arrangement,” Celestina said, and Hunt nearly toppled out of his chair. Isaiah looked inclined to do the same. Especially as the Archangel said to Isaiah and Naomi, “If you should wish to dwell in your own residences, you are free to do so. The barracks are good for building bonds, but I believe the ones between you are quite unshakable. You are free to enjoy your own lives.” She glanced at Isaiah, to the halo still tattooed on his brow. “I am not one to keep slaves,” she said, disapproval tightening her face. “And though the Asteri might brand you as such, Isaiah, you are a free male in my eyes. I will endeavor to continue Micah’s work in convincing them to free you.”