He should have been relieved, he supposed. Elin was kindling and salve, and he despised both. One pushed him past the limits of his control. The other made him crave the things he’d never before wanted. Connection. Communion. A future.

He would have blamed Kendra’s poison, would have claimed it was still at work inside him, pushing him toward the human, but he’d consumed more Frost, and the fire for Elin wasn’t even close to banked.

She spurned you? Xerxes asked, incredulous.

No.

I don’t understand. What’s the problem?

She wants what I give everyone else.

Xerxes frowned. Again I have to ask. What’s the problem?

I want to give her more, he admitted.

Shock registered. Can you?

His hands fisted. Maybe. For her—probably.

For the first time in his existence, he’d lost himself in the beauty of a kiss, in the decadent taste and carnal touch of the female in his arms. In the breathy sounds she made and the way her heart careened out of control. He’d had no need for pain. Not to arouse him, and certainly not to keep him aroused.

Had Elin lost herself in him, too?

Had he turned her on as spectacularly as the husband used to do?

Jealousy struck, as vicious as a demon. Every festering wound hidden inside Thane suddenly stung as though doused in acid.

I can relocate her, Bjorn said. Your torment will end and she will—

No, he shouted, baffled by his vehemence. More gently, he added, No. She stays at the club. He wanted her within reach. Protected and..ddled.

Had they been in their suite, his boys would have regarded him oddly, he knew. He wasn’t the type to fight to keep a female around.

Let me find you someone else, Xerxes requested.

I wish it were that simple. Now that he’d tasted Elin’s sweetness, the thought of other women actually repulsed him.

Bjorn brushed the tip of his wing over Thane’s. A woman is a woman is a woman. Close your eyes, and they’re all the same.

A callous assertion—one he would have concurred with in the past. But now? Now he knew differently. Elin has something other women do not.

Both males were intrigued.

And that is? Xerxes asked.

Thane smiled without humor. My trust.

Their destination loomed ahead, effectively ending the conversation. Good. He studied the building. The base was five stories tall, and the steel tower above it forty-two. He swooped low, bypassed the walls and entered the atrium. There were two guards behind the reception desk. A man with a briefcase strutted out the doors. A female click-clacked over the tiled floor and entered the glass elevators. As the cart lifted, it ran through a waterfall.

Pretty, but not what caught his attention. In a spirit realm the humans could not see, a horde of viha, envexa, and pică stalked the lobby. Demons of anger, envy and unforgiveness. None of them were one of the six who’d slain Germanus; they weren’t powerful enough. But they might belong to one of the six.

Twelve demons in total, ranging in sizes and shapes. Two were over six feet tall, but most were stooped over, gorilla-like, using both hands and feet to move forward. A few had horns—ivory towers, they were sometimes called—protruding from their scalps. A few had black, gnarled wings stretching from their backs. Some were covered in a mix of fur and scales. Some had antlers growing from shoulders and spine.

So ugly. Soon, so dead.

A battle of blood and bone was exactly what Thane needed to improve his mood. Grinning coldly, he held out his hand and summoned his sword of fire. Bjorn and Xerxes did the same.

One of the demons noticed the intruding Sent Ones and laughed. Not a typical reaction. The others stopped what they were doing and searched the lobby for the reason for the amusement. More laughter rang out before clawed footsteps echoed, the creatures racing away.

“Laughter,” Xerxes said through clenched teeth, as befuddled as Thane.

“No time to give chase and interrogate. We’ll have to catch them on our way out.” Thane flared his wings and flew up, up, up the many stories, taking note of the types of demons on each floor. Para and grzech here. Fear and sickness. Slecht there. Maliciousness. More viha, envexa and pică.

The higher up the building, the more powerful the demons became, until Thane was certain he was seeing what the creatures of the ever-dark referred to as their “high lords.” These supposed lords were only one position below the princes, the most powerful of all.

For demons, a prince was the equivalent of what a member of the Elite Seven was to a Sent One. Like Zacharel.

Thane had never fought one. He and his boys were the equivalent of a high lord, and as it was, he’d battled only a handful of those.

He stood in front of the bank of elevators and swept his gaze through Mr. Rathbone’s lobby. Spacious, screaming with wealth. Several of Monet’s best hung on the walls. Crystal vases perched on metal tables. A white leather couch formed a C in the far corner. Bloodred carpet draped the rosewood flooring. There were no prowling demons up here. Why?

He forced his robe to conform to his body and separate into different pieces. When the fabric darkened, he was wearing an exquisitely tailored pin-striped suit. He stepped into the natural realm. In the spirit realm, Bjorn and Xerxes remained at his side, unseen to the untrained eye.

A young, pretty receptionist tore her gaze from the document she was pretending to type, while wiping her watery eyes and nose—she’d been crying—and faced him. Her jaw dropped. “Um...uh, hi. I mean, hello, and welcome to Rathbone Industries.”

“I will see Mr. Rathbone now.” His tone left no room for argument.

She gulped. “Do you have an appointment, Mr....?”

Wasting time. He stalked away from her without another word.

She called out a frantic, “Stop. Please.”

He snaked the far corner and entered a hallway that led into several different conference rooms. He could go left or right. Left offered more doors. The right dead-ended at a large corner office with frosted glass walls. That one. Evil pricked at the back of his neck.

He opened the door.

A male, no more than twenty-five, sat at an ornate cherrywood desk. He had dark hair, every strand in place, and slate-gray eyes. His skin was deeply tanned. His elbows were propped on the desk, his fingers drumming together as he waited. He’d known Sent Ones had arrived.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said with an elegant wave to indicate the chairs. “Please, sit.”