“What I was ordered to do.”

Gods spare her. “Protecting me doesn’t entitle you to invade my privacy.” She could admit to the wisdom in letting him guard her, but she didn’t have to yield all sense of boundaries.

“Other people would disagree.” She opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “I’ve got my orders. I can’t disobey them.”

Her stomach tightened. No, Hunt Athalar certainly could not disobey his orders.

No slave could, whether Vanir or human. So she instead asked, “And how, exactly, did you get this number?”

“It’s in your file.”

She tapped her foot on the table. “Did you pay Prince Ruhn a visit?” She would have handed over a gold mark to watch her brother go head-to-head with Micah’s personal assassin.

Hunt grunted, “Isaiah did.” She smiled. “It was standard protocol.”

“So even after your boss tasked me with finding this murderer, you felt the need to look into whether my alibi checked out?”

“I didn’t write the fucking rules, Quinlan.”

“Hmm.”

“Open the curtains.”

“No, thank you.”

“Or you could invite me in and make my job easier.”

“Definitely no.”

“Why?”

“Because you can do your job just as well from that roof.”

Hunt’s chuckle skittered along her bones. “We’ve been ordered to get to the bottom of these murders. So I hate to tell you this, sweetheart, but we’re about to get real up close and personal.”

The way he said sweetheart—full of demeaning, condescending swagger—made her grind her teeth.

Bryce rose, padding to the floor-to-ceiling window under Syrinx’s careful watch, and tugged the curtains back enough to see the angel standing on the opposite roof, phone to his ear, gray wings slightly flared, as if balancing against the wind. “I’m sure you get off on the whole protector-of-damsels thing, but I was asked to head this case. You’re the backup.”

Even from across the street, she could see him roll his eyes. “Can we skip this pecking-order bullshit?”

Syrinx nudged at her calves, then shoved his face past her legs to peer at the angel.

“What is that pet of yours?”

“He’s a chimera.”

“Looks expensive.”

“He was.”

“Your apartment looks pretty damn expensive, too. That sorceress must pay you well.”

“She does.” Truth and lie.

His wings flared. “You have my number now. Call it if something goes wrong, or feels wrong, or if you need anything.”

“Like a pizza?”

She clearly saw the middle finger Hunt lifted above his head. Shadow of Death, indeed.

Bryce purred, “You would make a good delivery boy with those wings.” Angels in Lunathion never stooped to such work, though. Ever.

“Keep the damn curtains open, Quinlan.” He hung up.

She just gave him a mocking wave. And shut the curtains entirely.

Her phone buzzed with a message just as she plopped down again.

Do you have enchantments guarding your apartment?

She rolled her eyes, typing back, Do I look stupid?

Hunt fired back, Some shit is going down in this city and you’ve been gifted with grade A protection against it—yet you’re busting my balls about boundaries. I think that’s answer enough regarding your intelligence.

Her thumbs flew over the screen as she scowled and wrote, Kindly fly the fuck off.

She hit send before she could debate the wisdom of saying that to the Umbra Mortis.

He didn’t reply. With a smug smile, she picked up her remote.

A thud against the window had her leaping out of her skin, sending Syrinx scrambling in a mad dash toward the curtains, yowling his fuzzy head off.

She stormed around the couch, whipping the curtains back, wondering what the fuck he’d thrown at her window—

The Fallen angel hovered right there. Glaring at her.

She refused to back away, even as her heart thundered. Refused to do anything but shove open the window, the wind off his mighty wings stirring her hair. “What?”

His dark eyes didn’t so much as blink. Striking—that was the only word Bryce could think of to describe his handsome face, full of powerful lines and sharp cheekbones. “You can make this investigation easy, or you can make it hard.”

“I don’t—”

“Spare me.” Hunt’s dark hair shifted in the wind. The rustle and beat of his wings overpowered the traffic below—and the humans and Vanir now gawking up at him. “You don’t appreciate being watched, or coddled, or whatever.” He crossed his muscled arms. “Neither of us gets a say in this arrangement. So rather than waste your breath arguing about boundaries, why don’t you make that list of suspects and Danika’s movements?”

“Why don’t you stop telling me what I should be doing with my time?”

She could have sworn she tasted ether as he growled, “I’m going to be straight with you.”

“Goody.”

His nostrils flared. “I will do whatever the Hel it takes to solve this case. Even if it means tying you to a fucking chair until you write those lists.”

She smirked. “Bondage. Nice.”

Hunt’s eyes darkened. “Do. Not. Fuck. With. Me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re the Umbra Mortis.”

His teeth flashed. “I don’t care what you call me, Quinlan, so long as you do what you’re told.”

Fucking alphahole.

“Immortality is a long time to have a giant stick up your ass.” Bryce put her hands on her hips. Never mind that she was completely undermined by Syrinx dancing at her feet, prancing in place.

Dragging his stare away from her, the angel surveyed her pet with raised brows. Syrinx’s tail waved and bobbed. Hunt snorted, as if despite himself. “You’re a smart beastie, aren’t you?” He threw a scornful glance to Bryce. “Smarter than your owner, it seems.”

Make that the King of Alphaholes.

But Syrinx preened. And Bryce had the stupid, overwhelming urge to hide Syrinx from Hunt, from anyone, from anything. He was hers, and no one else’s, and she didn’t particularly like the thought of anyone coming into their little bubble—

Hunt’s stare lifted to her own again. “Do you own any weapons?” The purely male gleam in his eye told her that he assumed she didn’t.

“Bother me again,” she said sweetly, just before she shut the window in his face, “and you’ll find out.”

Hunt wondered how much trouble he’d get in if he chucked Bryce Quinlan into the Istros.

After the morning he’d had, any punishment from Micah or being turned into a pig by Jesiba Roga was starting to seem well worth it.

Leaning against a lamppost, his face coated with the misting rain that drifted through the city, Hunt clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt. At this hour, commuters packed the narrow streets of the Old Square—some heading to jobs in the countless shops and galleries, others aiming for the spires of the CBD, half a mile westward. All of them, however, noted his wings, his face, and gave him a wide berth.

Hunt ignored them and glanced at the clock on his phone. Eight fifteen.