Releasing her with enough force that she stumbled back a step, he said, “Do not cross more lines than you’ve already done by entering my lands without invitation. I am not yours to touch.” Only a single stubborn, intelligent, and dangerous woman had that right.

A tightening of lush brown skin over the blades of her cheekbones, rejection anathema to a woman used to being worshipped by the male sex. “I thought to plead my case in person.” Tilting her head to the side, the glossy black curls of her hair shining with bronze highlights, she placed her palms flat against the concave slope of her abdomen. “I thought you, of all the Cadre, would show kindness to a woman with child.” Her tone altered, became huskier, her dawning smile painful in its apparent tenderness. “You watched over the angelic nurseries as a young man. I have ever respected that about you, Raphael—your willingness to protect our most precious treasures.”

Raphael wondered if Michaela was so used to manipulating men that she simply didn’t understand he couldn’t be molded to her requirements with sweet words buttressed by an undertone of sex. “I am no longer a young man,” he said, seeing her eyes narrow at the continued ice in his tone, “and you have come perilously close to a fatal breach of the rules of Guesthood.”

Dropping her hands, she turned in a dramatic sweep of shimmering bronze, her wings arcing gracefully over her back. “You are being cruel.” Vivid green, her eyes were sheened wet when she turned to face him once more. “I ask you for sanctuary and you want me to play with formalities? You know I lost a child! I cannot lose another.”

For an instant, he almost believed her, thought that perhaps she’d miscarried the embryo and “forgotten” the knowledge in her agony . . . but then she betrayed herself, her lips curving up the slightest fraction at his hesitation. The feline smugness of her answered his final questions, told him he had no need to be gentle. “Enough of the charade, Michaela.”

“Charade? You mock me!” A thin ring of acidic green pulsing around the richer hue of her irises, an unmistakable physical sign of Uram’s influence. “I am vulnerable; you are strong. I ask for your help! Where is the charade?”

Allowing his own power to rise, he felt his wings begin to glow. “You carry no babe.”

Silence, her shock morphing rapidly into fury. “An accusation of deliberate falsehood! You incite a war!”

• • •

Golden light filled the wide mullioned windows of the graceful house where Illium indicated Elena should land.

“Pretty hunter, I’ve missed you.”

She hissed out a breath, blades falling into both hands as she recognized the blond vampire who’d shaped the simple statement into a threat, the bones of his face refined to an unearthly beauty that made it clear he was far beyond a hundred years of age.

The last time she’d seen Riker, he’d been pinned to the wall of the house next to their own, a torn-off chair leg through his throat and blood dripping down his temples. Today, Michaela’s favorite guard bared his teeth at her in a feral grin that was nothing natural, nothing sane, then waved his arm toward the front door in mocking welcome.

“My mistress flayed the skin off my back and made it into a purse.”

Hairs rising on her nape at the memory of the way he’d made that admission with the same creepily fixed smile, Elena tightened her grip on the blades. “I see you’ve healed.”

A lascivious stroke of his tongue along his upper lip. “I’ve been waiting a long time to be alone with you.” His eyes flicked over her head just as she heard the cold whisper of sound that was Illium unsheathing the sword he always carried along his spine, the weapon hidden by a glamour that spoke to Illium’s growing power.

“Go,” he murmured, then raised his voice. “I’ll watch Michaela’s rabid dog, put him out of his misery if he proves troublesome.”

Riker’s eyes glowed bloodred, his fangs flashing, but he kept his distance when she walked past him and through the front door. Raphael, how bad is it?

Michaela is not with child, has likely never been with child.

I can’t believe she used the memory of her own dead child in a scheme. Sickened by the callousness of such an act, she followed the sound of a raised voice to the large but otherwise unremarkable central core of the house. Raphael stood in the center, Michaela a few feet from him.

The female archangel’s exquisite skin, the color of coffee swirled with milk and dusted with gold, was flushed, as if as a result of passionate argument; her body the epitome of female perfection in the emerald green catsuit that caressed every curve and valley.

Raphael answered whatever it was Michaela had said just as Elena took the first step toward him. “It’s not a lie you can hope to maintain—so unless you do wish a war, cut your losses and leave.”

Shooting Elena a dagger-sharp glare, Michaela said, “Look, your pet has arrived,” the words saccharine-sweet. “Has she learned to sit and beg on command yet?”

Elena made her tone just as sweet as she played a throwing knife over her fingers. “No, but my aim’s even better now.” It might’ve been petty, but she enjoyed seeing the fury in Michaela’s expression at the reminder that Elena had once buried a blade in her eyeball.

“Don’t.” It was a soft warning from Raphael as Michaela raised her hand, her fingertips crackling with dramatic green.

A ball of angelfire formed in Raphael’s palm.

“I don’t know why you’re so amused by the creature.” Michaela closed her fingers. “But I suggest you teach it manners.”

Bristling, Elena nonetheless realized Michaela wanted an excuse to hurt her, and held her silence as Raphael spoke in a tone that could’ve drawn blood. “I judge it’ll strain your squadron to make the return journey at once, so you may remain as a guest until midnight. Any later and I’ll consider it an act of trespass.”

Brushstrokes of violent red across Michaela’s cheekbones, the sign of emotional intensity only serving to highlight her incredible beauty. “One day,” she purred, “one day you’ll understand what you reject this night, and then you will beg for my favors.”

Can I stab her?

Only if she is still here after midnight.

• • •

Neither one of them spoke again until they landed on the lawn of their own home. In the short time that Elena had been inside Gable House, night had begun to give way to day, and across the river, Manhattan was wrapped in soft, swirling gray, the lights in the high-rises muted.

“I want you to keep a discreet watch on Michaela and her people,” Raphael ordered Illium, the blue-winged angel having flown back with them. “It’s almost dawn, so you can go alone, but check in with Aodhan every ten minutes.”

“Sire.” Illium lifted off with a bare rustle of sound, the silver-blue of his wings swallowed up by the gray as he ascended above the cloud layer.

Wings brushing the dew-laden grass, Elena paced across the lawn. “Was it just me or was the Bitch Goddess ‘off’ tonight? She had this odd jerkiness to her movements.”

“Uram’s taint.”

Elena’s gorge rose at the thought of Michaela’s former lover, the insane archangel who’d left a trail of mutilated and bloody bodies in his wake . . . including Jeffrey’s mistress, that pitiable, pale copy of Marguerite. Ripped-off limbs thrust into screaming mouths, rib cages torn open to reveal glistening entrails, bodies hung and bled, Uram had committed atrocities Elena hadn’t even imagined possible.

“Uram tore out her heart,” she said, recalling her horror at the gaping wound, “left that glowing red fireball in her chest. Direct contact.” The only other person to have such intimate contact with Uram, and survive, was Sorrow, and she’d undeniably come out of it altered on a fundamental level.

The young woman wasn’t human any longer, but neither was she a vampire; she’d starve without blood as she’d starve without food. Then there was the would-be assailant twice her size whose neck she’d snapped in a self-defensive fugue. Now in training to learn how to consciously manage her strength and speed, Elena knew Sorrow was also under constant watch for signs of the same murderous insanity as her “blood sire,” the term one she’d heard Dmitri use.

It infuriated Elena that the gutsy young woman couldn’t escape Uram, but Sorrow wasn’t the issue right this instant. “What if Michaela refuses to leave?”

“Then I’ll force her out.”

Guilt gripped her in its bony hands. If Michaela had gained an offensive power in the Cascade, any battle would be a treacherously uneven one for Raphael.

“I would wash off the night, Elena.” Raphael turned toward the house.

Stomach in knots, her earlier anger at him buried under the chilling reminder that she might just have killed him, she went in silence.

Shutting the bedroom door behind them, Raphael walked across to open the balcony doors, letting in the cold morning air. “Come here, Guild Hunter.”

“What is it?”

“I would like to know”—his tone a serrated blade—“why my consort is keeping secrets that make her fly into herself.”

She flinched, stepping past him to stand on the very edge of the balcony. “I’m angry at you, for what happened with Ransom.”

“You might be angry, but you understand the decision.” As ruthless an answer as the way he’d dealt with Cici. “That isn’t what you’re keeping from me.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Now, you lie to me?” Cold, deadly, each word honed as bright as sword steel.

Spinning to face him, she fisted her hands. “Stop trying to intimidate me—I’m your consort.”

“I don’t think you have the capacity to be intimidated,” came the icy response, but his eyes, they were violent blue flames. “What are you hiding, Elena?”

Relentless and used to getting answers to his questions, he wouldn’t drop this, she knew, but the thought of telling him the truth was a rock in her gut. “Leave it,” she said, jaw clenched. “I’m asking you to just let it go.”