Archangel's Blade (Guild Hunter #4)(35)

Narrowed eyes. “Leave so I can get dressed.”

“Don’t take too long.” Striding out to her glare, he began to make his phone calls. Jason hadn’t heard even a whisper of anything related to an angel named Isis, but promised to alert his network. Dmitri also contacted Illium, instructing him to brief the rest of the Seven. His final call was to Raphael.

The archangel’s response was simple. “You’re certain?”

“Yes,” he said, understanding the question. “I’ll handle it.” Isis was his nightmare.

Hanging up, he was staring out at a Manhattan still swathed in the graying kiss of night, the Tower dominating the skyline, when the scent of wildflowers in bloom grew stronger. It tugged at long-buried emotions in him, that scent, made him remember the mortal he’d been so many years ago that entire civilizations had risen and fallen during his lifetime.

“Let’s go.”

He turned to see Honor dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a loose white shirt. “I said properly dressed.” He knew full well what she was doing with her shapeless clothing, and it turned him merciless. “Just because the predators can’t get a good look at you doesn’t mean they don’t consider you fresh meat.”

Fury spotted red high across her cheekbones. “Fuck you, Dmitri.”

“Right now?” He gave her a deliberately taunting smile. “Come over here, then, darling.”

He saw her hand twitch, knew she was fighting the urge to go for her gun, drill him in the heart. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’d prefer my own company. Get out.”

“Pathetic, Honor,” he said, well aware the painful buttons he was pressing. “Valeria—if she still has her tongue, which is doubtful—would be laughing at what she’s made you.”

Honor went motionless. “I think I’m starting to hate you.”

“Doesn’t bother me.” There was strength in hate. It was why he’d survived that dungeon. “It’ll make it even sweeter when I have you naked and wet for me.”

Not answering, she slammed her way into her bedroom. Ten long minutes later she stepped back out. This time, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she was dressed in skintight jeans tucked into knee-high black boots, topped with a close-fitting black tee over which she’d thrown a hip-length leather jacket in the same shade. He’d been right—her breasts were luscious, her body a knockout.

Walking over to stop bare inches from a female form that was all but vibrating with rage, he reached out to touch her, the compulsion undeniable. A blur of movement, an elbow to his chest, his legs being kicked out from under him, and suddenly he was crashing onto the floor, looking up at an Honor who was no victim.

Dmitri laughed.

Honor didn’t know what she’d expected, but that laugh, deep and masculine and hotly real, wasn’t it. When he lifted a hand toward her, she ignored it . . . though it was troubling, how much she wanted to straddle that beautiful body and lean down to kiss those sensual, laughing lips—as if he hadn’t just cut into her with the pitiless blade of his voice.

His laughter faded into a smile that was very, very male. “Come here.”

She walked to the door instead . . . but she was no longer so sure that when it came to this madness inside her, a madness that bore Dmitri’s name, that she’d emerge the winner.





Honor froze when Dmitri brought the car to a halt around the back of a discreet black building in Soho. “You bastard,” she said, her voice so soft it was almost not sound. Erotique was the club of choice for the more high-ranked vampires. Its hosts and hostesses—mostly human, but with the occasional “new” vampire thrown in—were trained to know how to deal with the older almost-immortals. Some called the dancers within its exclusive walls the geishas of the West.

Bracing his hand against the back of her seat, Dmitri shot her a glance that appeared darkly amused . . . if you didn’t look into those eyes, cold and brutal. “There is a high chance,” he said in a voice that was black satin over her breasts, “that at least some of the vampires you’ll meet here tonight have already had a taste of you.”

“Come on, hunter. Scream a little more. The blood tastes better when you do.”

Spots in front of her eyes, her breath strangling in her chest. Her gun was in her hand and pointed at Dmitri’s head before she was aware of pulling it from the shoulder holster. “I’m leaving.”

Dmitri moved at lightning speed, and suddenly her gun was in his grip, that sensual face an inch from her own. “Taunt them with your survival, Honor. Or run like a scared rabbit. Your choice.”

The violence within her body needed release—she wanted to hit Dmitri, bloody him. “Why do you care?” It was a harsh whisper. “I’m just a new diversion for you.”

“True.” Touching the nose of her gun to her cheek. “But I find there’s no fun in playing with someone who’s already half dead.” He put the weapon in her lap and pushed open his door to step out. “Strange,” he murmured, snicking the door shut, “how you sometimes remind me of her, and yet you don’t have even a glimmer of her spirit.”

She stared at his retreating form as he headed toward the back entrance of the club, leaving her alone in a panther of a car, gun heavy in her holster as she slid it back in. His words had been calculated to incite a reaction, but they still hit. Hard.