He snorted. “You really want to say you’re dating the Umbra Mortis?”

  “I’m not keeping this private.” She said it without an ounce of doubt. She brushed her fingers over his brow. Like she knew what it meant to him.

  Hunt managed to ask, “What about Cormac and your ruse?”

  “Well, after all that, I guess.” If they survived. She whooshed out a breath. “Boyfriend sounds weird for you. It’s so … young. But what else is there?”

  If he had a star on his chest, Hunt knew it’d be glowing as he asked, “Partner?”

  “Not sexy enough.”

  “Lover?”

  “Does that come with a ruff and lute?”

  He swept a wing over her bare thigh. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?”

  “Just ye olde lover.”

  Hunt hooked his finger under the strap of her thong and snapped it. She yowled, swatting away his hand.

  But Hunt grabbed her fingers, laying them on his heart again. “What about mate?” Bryce stilled, and Hunt held his breath, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing. When she didn’t reply, he went on, “Fae have mates, right? That’s the term they use.”

  “Mates are … an intense thing for the Fae.” She swallowed audibly. “It’s a lifetime commitment. Something sworn between bodies and hearts and souls. It’s a binding between beings. You say I’m your mate in front of any Fae, and it’ll mean something big to them.”

  “And we don’t mean something big like that?” he asked carefully, hardly daring to breathe. She held his heart in her hands. Had held it since day one.

  “You mean everything to me,” she breathed, and he exhaled deeply. “But if we tell Ruhn that we’re mates, we’re as good as married. To the Fae, we’re bound on a biological, molecular level. There’s no undoing it.”

  “Is it a biological thing?”

  “It can be. Some Fae claim they know their mates from the moment they meet them. That there’s some kind of invisible link between them. A scent or soul-bond.”

  “Is it ever between species?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted, and ran her fingers over his chest in dizzying, taunting circles. “But if you’re not my mate, Athalar, no one is.”

  “A winning declaration of love.”

  She scanned his face, earnest and open in a way she so rarely was with others. “I want you to understand what you’re telling people, telling the Fae, if you say I’m your mate.”

  “Angels have mates. Not as … soul-magicky as the Fae, but we call life partners mates in lieu of husbands or wives.” Shahar had never called him such a thing. They’d rarely even used the term lover.

  “The Fae won’t differentiate. They’ll use their intense-ass definition.”

  He studied her contemplative face. “I feel like it fits. Like we’re already bound on that biological level.”

  “Me too. And who knows? Maybe we’re already mates.”

  It would explain a lot. How intense things had been between them from the start. And once they crossed that last physical barrier, he had a feeling the bond would be even further solidified.

  So … maybe they were already mates, by that Fae definition. Maybe Urd had long ago bound their souls, and they’d needed all this time to realize it. But did it even matter? If it was fate or choice to be together?

  Hunt asked, “Does it scare you? Calling me your mate?”

  Her gaze dipped to the space between them, and she said quietly, “You’re the one who’s been defined by other people’s terms for centuries.” Fallen. Slave. Umbra Mortis. “I just want to make sure it’s a title you’re cool with having. Forever.”

  He kissed her temple, breathing in her scent. “Of everything I’ve ever been called, Quinlan, your mate will be the one I truly cherish.”

  Her lips curved. “Did you hear the forever part?”

  “I thought that’s what this thing between us is.”

  “We’ve known each other for, like, five months.”

  “So?”

  “My mom will throw a fit. She’ll say we should date for at least two years before calling ourselves mates.”

  “Who cares what other people think? None of their rules have ever applied to us anyway. And if we’re some sort of predestined mates, then it doesn’t make a difference at all.”

  She smiled again, and it lit up his entire chest. No, that was the star between her breasts. He laid a hand over the glowing scar, light shining through his fingers. “Why does it do that?”

  “Maybe it likes you.”

  “It glowed for Cormac and Ruhn.”

  “I didn’t say it was smart.”

  Hunt laughed and leaned to kiss the scar. “All right, my lovely mate. No sex tonight.”

  His mate. His.

  And he was hers. It wouldn’t have surprised him if her name were stamped on his heart. He wondered if his own were stamped on the glowing star in her chest.

  “Tomorrow night. We’ll get a hotel room.”

  He brushed another kiss against her scar. “Deal.”

  28

  I’m glad to see you alive.

  Ruhn stood on a familiar mental bridge, the lines of his body once more filled in with night and stars and planets. At the other end of the bridge waited that burning female figure. Long hair of pure flame floated around her as if underwater, and what he could make out of her mouth was curved upward in a half smile.

  “So am I,” he said. He must have passed out on the couch in Bryce’s apartment. He’d still been there at two in the morning, watching old game highlights with Ithan. Dec had long since gone to spend the night at Marc’s place. Neither had turned up any solid footage of Emile at the docks—or concrete proof of the Reapers being sent from the Under-King or Apollion. The search for Danika at the gallery would take days, Dec had said before leaving, and he did have other work to do. Ithan had instantly volunteered to keep combing through it.

  The wolf pup wasn’t bad. Ruhn could see them being friends, if their people weren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Literally.

  Ruhn said to Agent Daybright, “Thanks for trying to wake me up.”

  “What happened?”

  “Reapers.”

  Her flame guttered to a violet blue. “They attacked you?”

  “Long story.” He angled his head. “So I don’t need the crystal to reach you? I can just be unconscious? Sleeping?”

  “Perhaps the crystal was only needed to initiate contact between our minds—a beacon for your talents,” she said. “Now that your mind—and mine—knows where to go, you don’t require the crystal anymore, and can contact me even in … inopportune moments.”

  A pinprick of guilt poked at him. She was embedded in the higher ranks of the empire—had he endangered her when he’d been unconscious earlier, his mind blindly reaching for hers?

  But Daybright said, “I have information for you to pass on.”

  “Yeah?”

  She straightened. “Is that how Ophion agents speak these days? Yeah?”

  She had to be old, then. One of the Vanir who’d lived for so long that modern lingo was like a foreign language. Or, gods, if she was an Asteri …

  Ruhn wished he had a wall or a doorway or a counter to lean against as he crossed his arms. “So you’re old-school Pangeran.”

  “Your position here isn’t to learn about me. It’s to pass along information. Who I am, who you are, is of no consequence.” She gestured to her flames. “This should tell you enough.”

  “About what?”

  Her flames pushed closer to her body, turning a vibrant orange—like the hottest embers. The kind that would burn to the bone. “About what shall happen if you ask too many prying questions.”

  He smiled slightly. “So what’s the intel?”

  “The hit on the Spine is a go.”

  Ruhn’s smile faded. “When’s the shipment?”

  “Three days from now. It leaves from the Eternal City at six in the morning their time. No planned stops, no refueling. They’ll travel swiftly northward, all the way to Forvos.”

  “The mech-suit prototype will be on the train?”

  “Yes. And along with it, Imperial Transport is moving fifty crates of brimstone missiles to the northern front, along with a hundred and twelve crates of guns and about five hundred crates of ammunition.”

  Burning Solas. “You’re going to stage a heist?”

  “I’m not doing anything,” Agent Daybright said. “Ophion will be responsible. I’d recommend destroying it all, though. Especially that new mech-suit. Don’t waste time trying to unload anything from the trains or you’ll be caught.”

  Ruhn refrained from mentioning that Cormac had suggested something different. He’d said Ophion wanted to attain the suit—to study it. And use those weapons in their war. “Where’s the best place to intercept?”

  He was really doing this, apparently. Pass this intel along, and he was officially aligning himself with the rebels.

  “That’s for Ophion Command to decide.”

  He asked carefully, “Will Pippa Spetsos be assigned to the hit?” Or was she in Lunathion looking for Emile, as Tharion suspected?

  “Does it matter?”

  Ruhn shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Just want to know whether we need to notify her.”

  “I’m not privy to who Command sends on their missions.”

  “Do you know where Pippa Spetsos is right now, though?”

  Her flame guttered for a moment. “Why do you have such interest in her?”

  He held up his hands. “No interest at all.” He could sense her suspicion, though, so he asked, “Will there be armed guards with the shipment?”

  “Yes. About a hundred wolves in and atop the cars, along with a dozen aerial angel scouts above. All armed with rifles, handguns, and knives.”

  Forested areas would be best for a strike, then, to avoid being seen by the malakim.

  “Anything else?”

  She angled her head. “None of this bothers you?”

  “I’ve been in the Aux for a while. I’m used to coordinating shit.” Nothing like this, though. Nothing that put him firmly in the Asteri’s line of fire.

  “That’s a stupid thing to reveal. Ophion must have been desperate, if they sent someone as untrained as you to deal with me.”

  “Trust is a two-way street.” He gestured to the space between them.

  Another one of those soft laughs raked over his skin. “Do you have anything for me? What’s this business with Pippa Spetsos?”

  “Nothing at all. But—thanks for trying to save my ass earlier.”

  “I’d be a fool to let a valuable contact go to waste.”

  He bristled. “I’m touched.”

  She snorted. “You sound like a male used to being obeyed. Interesting.”

  “What the Hel is interesting about it?”

  “The rebels must have something on you, to make you risk your position by doing this.”

  “I thought you didn’t give a shit about my personal life.”

  “I don’t. But knowledge is power. I’m curious about who you might be, if the Reapers tried to grab you. And why you allow the rebels to push you around.”

  “Maybe I wanted to join.”

  She laughed, the sound sharp as a blade. “I’ve found that the ruling class rarely do such things out of the kindness of their hearts.”

  “Cynical.”

  “Perhaps, but it’s true.”

  “I could name a highly placed Vanir who’s helping the rebels without being forced into it.”

  “Then they should put a bullet in your head.”

  Ruhn stiffened. “Excuse me?”

  She waved a hand. “If you know their identity, if you’re able to so blithely boast about it, if you are asking too many questions about Agent Spetsos, you’re not an asset at all. You’re a loose cannon. If the dreadwolves catch you, how long will it take for you to sing that person’s name?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Have you ever been tortured? It’s easy for people to claim they wouldn’t break, but when your body is being pulled apart piece by piece, bone by bone, you’d be surprised what people offer to get the pain to stop, even for a second.”

  Ruhn’s temper flared. “You don’t know shit about me or what I’ve been through.” He was grateful the night and stars of his skin covered the marks his father’s ministrations had left—the ones his ink couldn’t hide.

  Day’s flame blazed brighter. “You should mind what you tell people, even among Ophion allies. They have ways of making people disappear.”

  “Like Sofie Renast?”

  Her fire simmered. “Don’t repeat her true name to anyone. Refer to her as Agent Cypress.”

  Ruhn gritted his teeth. “Do you know anything about Sofie?”

  “I assumed she was dead, since you’re now my contact.”

  “And if she isn’t?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If she isn’t dead, where would she go? Where would she hide?”

  Daybright whirled back toward her end of the bridge. “This meeting is over.” And before Ruhn could say another word, she vanished, leaving only drifting embers behind.

  “Why the Hel would the Asteri create their own mech-suit for this war?” Hunt asked, rubbing his jaw as he leaned against the kitchen counter the next morning.

  He tried not to look at the black box on the other end of the counter. But its presence seemed to … hum. Seemed to hollow out the air around it.

  Considering the two Death Marks inside, it was no wonder.

  Cormac sipped from his tea, face clouded. He’d arrived barely past dawn, apparently after Ruhn had called him to demand that he rush over, thus dragging Hunt from slumber—and Bryce’s arms—with his knocking. “The suits are the one advantage we have. Well, that the humans have.”

  “I know that,” Hunt countered tightly. “I’ve fought them. I know them inside and out.”

  And he’d taken them apart. And sabotaged them so their pilots didn’t stand a chance.

  He’d been content to let that knowledge serve him lately for stuff like fixing Bryce’s bike—which he’d gone so far as to wash for her before handing it back over—but if the Asteri were making a mech-suit of their own for a Vanir soldier to use …

  “I always forget,” Ruhn murmured from where he sat on the couch beside Bryce, “that you fought in two wars.” The one he’d waged and lost with the Fallen, and then the years spent fighting at Sandriel’s command against the Ophion rebels.

  “I don’t,” Hunt said, earning an apologetic wince from Ruhn. “We need to be careful. You’re sure this information was real?”

  “Yeah,” Ruhn said.

  Holstrom settled himself against the wall beside the counter, silently watching the exchange. His face revealed nothing. A laptop sat open on the couch, though, still combing through the years of gallery footage for any hint of Danika.

  But this conversation with Cormac, this hit on the Spine … “You likely have double agents in Ophion,” Hunt said to the Avallen Prince.

  “Not Daybright,” Cormac said with absolute certainty.

  “Anyone can be bought,” Hunt said.

  Bryce said nothing, busy pretending that she was more interested in her pink toenails than this conversation. Hunt knew she was picking over every word.

  He’d emerged from the bedroom intending to tell every single person who crossed his path that she was his mate, but Ruhn had been waiting with this news instead, apparently having slept on the couch.

  “Regardless,” Cormac said tightly, “I need to pass this information along.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Ruhn said. Bryce’s mouth popped open in alarm.

  “You could be walking right into a trap,” Hunt warned.

  “We don’t have any choice,” Cormac countered. “We can’t risk losing this opportunity.”

  “And what do you risk losing if it’s fake?” Lightning crackled at Hunt’s fingers. Bryce’s eyes flicked up to him at last, wary and full of caution.

  She said before Cormac could answer, “This isn’t our business, Hunt.”

  “Like Hel it isn’t. We’re tied into it, whether we want to be or not.”

  Golden fire filled her gaze. “Yes, but we have nothing to do with this hit; this intel. It’s Ophion’s problem to deal with.” She straightened, giving Ruhn a scathing look that seemed to say, You should stay out of it, too, but faced Cormac. “So go report to Command and keep us out of it.”

  Cormac stared her down, his jaw working.

  She gave him a slash of a smile that set Hunt’s blood thrumming. “Not used to females giving you orders?”

  “There are plenty of females in Command.” Cormac’s nostrils flared. “And I would advise you to behave as a Fae female ought to when we are seen together in public. It shall be hard enough to convince others of our betrothal thanks to that smell on you.”

  “What smell?” Bryce said, and Hunt braced his feet. She could take care of herself in a fight, but he’d still enjoy pummeling the bastard.

  Cormac motioned between her and Hunt. “You think I can’t scent what went down between you two?”

  Bryce leaned back against the cushions. “You mean, that he went down on me?”

  Hunt choked, and Ruhn let out a garbled string of curses. Ithan walked to the coffee machine and muttered something about it being too early.

  Cormac, however, didn’t so much as blush. He said gravely, “Your mingling scents will jeopardize this ruse.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” Bryce said, and then winked at Hunt.

  Gods, she’d tasted like a dream. And the sweet, breathy sounds she made when she came … Hunt rolled out the tautness in his shoulders. They had a long day ahead of them. A dangerous day.

  They were going to the Bone Quarter today, for fuck’s sake. The street camera footage had pinpointed that the Reaper who’d attacked Bryce and Ruhn had been within a block of the Black Dock, but even with Declan’s skills, they hadn’t found any concrete proof of the Reaper sailing over. It was enough of a link that they’d question the Under-King about it, though. And if they got through that, then Hunt planned to have a long, long night. He’d already made a reservation at a fancy-ass hotel restaurant. And reserved a large suite. With rose petals and champagne.