Roaring erupted in Hunt’s head. Sandriel’s triarii. The actual scum of the universe.
They were coming here. To be part of this group. In this city.
A knock sounded on the door, and Hunt twisted as Celestina said, “Come in.”
Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingertips. The door opened, and in swaggered Pollux Antonius and Baxian Argos.
The Hammer and the Helhound.
10
Absolute quiet settled over the Governor’s office as Hunt and his friends took in the two newcomers.
One was dark-haired and brown-skinned, tall and finely muscled—the Helhound. His jet-black wings shimmered faintly, like a crow’s feathers. But it was the wicked scar snaking down his neck, forking across the column of his throat, that snared the eye.
Hunt knew that scar—he’d given it to the Helhound thirty years ago. Some powers, it seemed, even immortality couldn’t guard against.
Baxian’s obsidian eyes simmered as they met Hunt’s stare.
But Pollux’s cobalt eyes lit with feral delight as he sized up Naomi, then Isaiah, and finally Hunt. Hunt allowed his lightning to flare as he stared down the golden-haired, golden-skinned leader of Sandriel’s triarii. The most brutal, sadistic asshole to have ever walked Midgard’s soil. Motherfucker Number One.
Pollux smirked, slow and satisfied. Celestina was saying something, but Hunt couldn’t hear it.
Couldn’t hear anything except Pollux drawling, “Hello, friends,” before Hunt leapt from his chair and tackled him to the floor.
Ithan Holstrom dabbed a damp washcloth at the last of the cuts healing on his face, wincing. Bryce’s bathroom was exactly as he’d expected it to be: full of at least three kinds of shampoos and conditioners, an array of hair treatments, brushes, curling rods of two different sizes, a blow-dryer left plugged into the wall, half-burned candles, and makeup scattered up and down the marble counter like some glittery bomb had gone off.
It was almost exactly the same as her bathroom at the old apartment. Just being here made his chest tighten. Just smelling this place, smelling her made his chest tighten.
He’d had little to distract himself today, sitting alone with her chimera—Syrinx, Athalar had called him—on the couch, nearly dying of boredom watching daytime TV. He didn’t feel like trawling the news for hours, awaiting a glimpse of the new Archangel. None of the sports channels had interesting coverage on, and he had no desire to listen to those assholes talk anyway.
Ithan angled his face before the mirror to better see the cut lacing across his brow. This particular beauty had been from Sabine, a swipe of a claw-armed fist.
He had a feeling the blow had been intended for his eyes. Sure, they’d have healed after a few days or weeks, sooner if he’d gone to a medwitch, but being blinded wasn’t at the top of his to-do list.
Not that he really had anything else on his to-do list today.
His phone buzzed on the counter, and Ithan peered down to see three different news alerts and photo essays about the arrival of Celestina. Had shit not gone down with Sabine, he’d probably be gearing up to meet the beautiful malakh as part of the wolves’ formal welcome. And fealty-swearing bullshit.
But now he was a free agent. A wolf without a pack.
It wasn’t common, but it did happen. Lone wolves existed, though most roamed the wilds and were left to their own devices. He’d just never thought he’d be one.
Ithan set down his phone, hanging up the washcloth on the already-crowded towel bar.
He willed the shift, inhaling sharply and bidding his bones to melt, his skin to ripple.
It occurred to him a moment after he took his wolf form that the bathroom wasn’t quite large enough.
Indeed, a swish of his tail knocked over various bottles, sending them scattering across the marble floor. His claws clicked on the tiles, but he lifted his muzzle toward the mirror and met his reflection once more.
The horse-sized wolf that stared back was hollow-eyed, though his fur covered most of his bruising and the cuts, save for the slash along his brow.
He inhaled—and the breath stuck in his ribs. In some empty, strange pocket.
Wolf with no pack. Amelie and Sabine had not merely bloodied him, they’d exorcised him from their lives, from the Den. He backed into the towel rack, tossing his head this way and that.
Worse than an Omega. Friendless, kinless, unwanted—
Ithan shuddered back into his humanoid form. Panting, he braced his hands on the bathroom counter and waited until the nausea subsided. His phone buzzed again. Every muscle in his body tensed.
Perry Ravenscroft.
He might have ignored it had he not read the first part of the message as it appeared.
Please tell me you’re alive.
Ithan sighed. Amelie’s younger sister—the Omega of the Black Rose Pack—was technically the reason he’d made it here. Had said nothing about her sister and Sabine ripping him to shreds, but she’d carried him into the apartment. She was the only one of his former pack to bother to check in.
She added, Just write back y/n.
Ithan stared at the message for a long moment.
Wolves were social creatures. A wolf without a pack … it was a soul-wound. One that would cripple most wolves. But he’d been struck a soul-wound two years ago and had survived.
Even though he knew he couldn’t endure taking his wolf form again anytime soon.
Ithan took in the bathroom, the various crap Bryce had left lying around. She’d been a wolf without a pack for those two years, too. Yeah, she had Fury and Juniper, but it wasn’t the same as Danika and Connor and the Pack of Devils. Nothing would ever be the same as that.
Ithan typed back Yes, then slid his phone into his pocket. Bryce would be home soon. And she’d mentioned something about pizza.
Ithan padded out into the airy apartment, Syrinx lifting his head from the couch to inspect him. The chimera lay back down with a puff of approval, lion’s tail waggling.
The silence of the apartment pressed on Ithan. He’d never lived on his own. He’d always had the constant chaos and closeness of the Den, the insanity of his college dorm, or the hotels he’d stayed at with the CCU sunball team. This place might as well have been another planet.
He rubbed at his chest, as if it’d erase the tightness.
He’d known precisely why he’d disobeyed Sabine’s order this spring when Bryce had screamed for help. The sound of her pleading had been unbearable. And when she’d mentioned children at risk, something had exploded in his brain. He had no regrets about what he’d done.
But could he endure its consequences? Not the beating—he could weather that shit any day. But being here, alone, adrift … He hadn’t felt like this since Connor and the others had died. Since he’d walked away from his sunball team and stopped answering their calls.
He had no idea what the Hel he’d do now. Perhaps the answer wasn’t some big, life-altering thing. Maybe it could be as simple as putting one foot in front of the other.
That’s how you wound up following someone like Amelie, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Connor’s growled. Make better choices this time, pup. Assess. Decide what you want.
But for now … one foot in front of the other. He could do that. If just for today.
Ithan walked to the door and pulled the leash off the hook on the wall beside it. “Want a walk?” he asked Syrinx. The beast rolled onto his side, as if saying, Belly rub, please.