Max turned and held up both hands. “I know what you’re thinking, but you have to trust me. I would never lead Ava and Renata—”

“What the hell?” Malachi’s voice echoed between the metal corridor of buildings and Ava heard the door open.

She looked beyond her mate and Max.

“Ava, get back in the car. Now!”

Renata held tighter to her hand. “Malachi, calm down. No one is going to hurt her.”

There was a silhouette in the doorway. The man stepped forward, his lithe body moving with preternatural grace. As he stepped closer, Ava saw him and her heart almost stopped.

Pale, luminous skin set off eyes the color of the winter sea. Dark, curling hair fell over his forehead, touched by hints of the snow that had started to fall.

Beautiful.

Ethereal.

Grigori.

Malachi roared and reached for his knives as Ava stepped back.

Her mate rushed the soldier, who immediately countered with his own weapons. Malachi fought in a fury of knives and kicks, slashing the Grigori who fended him off with a short staff and a machete.

“Malachi, no!” Max was yelling.

Renata held Ava in an iron grip, keeping her from running to the safety of the car or joining her mate in battle. “Stay here and keep out of it.”

“Stop,” Max shouted. “Please!”

They didn’t stop. Malachi had a deep gash across his cheek, but the Grigori looked worse. Still, the soldier fought with grim determination and focus. He winced and rolled away when Malachi knocked him to the ground.

Max, Ava noticed, was not helping. He was only shouting at the two men to stop.

“You have to listen to him,” Renata shouted. “Malachi, stop!”

Four more men appeared in the doorway, hands clenched on their own daggers. One held up a gun.

“No!” Max yelled, rushing toward them. “He doesn’t know!”

Renata left Ava and ran to Malachi, spinning him around and pulling him away from the Grigori. “Stop, you idiot, and listen!”

Malachi bared his teeth at Renata and lunged at the Grigori again, though the man was curled on the ground, barely moving.

Renata pulled him back and punched Malachi across the jaw.

“Hey!” Ava shouted, rushing forward. “What are you—”

“Don’t you lose your head too,” Renata said, swinging Ava around and holding her arms behind her back. “Look at them.”

“Malachi—”

“Look at them!”

She looked.

Another Grigori stood in front of Max, his hands in his pockets. She could smell the sandalwood on his skin. His eyes surveyed the scene clinically as the soldiers rushed from the doorway and rolled their brother to his back to examine his wounds. Malachi was stirring, his hand reaching for his dagger, but Renata stepped on it and bared her teeth.

“Let. Max. Talk.”

“Kostas said to bring the girl,” the soldier in charge said to Max. “Not an Irin assassin.”

Max said, “The scribe is her mate. She doesn’t go anywhere without him. And you didn’t leave me time to explain. I told Kostas to wait for my signal.”

“Kostas does not answer to you.” The Grigori’s eyes narrowed. “And the butcher of Berlin isn’t known for his understanding.”

“Let me talk to him, Pietro.”

“Fine. But get him under control. Or Kostas will refuse to allow any of you in.” His lazy eyes flicked to Ava. “Maybe her.”

Calm. Slight interest. But none of the grasping hunger she’d felt from the Grigori in the past.

There was something different in his gaze.

“Calm your mate, sister,” the Grigori named Pietro said to Ava. “Then come inside.”

Ava froze.

Pietro turned and followed the other Grigori, who had not attacked but only carried their fallen comrade into the dimly lit warehouse. Malachi stopped growling and rose to his feet, suddenly aware of the change in the air.

“Ava, what’s going on?”

Sister?

He reached for her frozen hand as Ava’s heart had begun to pound.

“Ava—”

“I want to go in,” she whispered. “I need to go in there.”

She followed the strange Grigori without thought. Malachi fell in step behind her, still grasping her hand. She felt the blood sticky on his palm, but she couldn’t seem to stop. Ava could feel the tension ratcheting up his arm.

As the Grigori led them through the building, various doors cracked open, but no one attacked them. No one even showed their face.

They made it into the cavern of the warehouse, a living area lit within the darkness. Low conversation flowed around the small group of men. No more than ten or fifteen were there. As they approached, they passed tables and chairs set up, old pallets and broken-down crates.

A man rose from the couch, his hands fisted on his hips.

His hair was long and pulled back to reveal another stunningly handsome face. Rich brown eyes and coffee-colored hair. Aquiline features that bore a hint of nobility, despite the grime and wreckage around him.

Max stepped forward and held up a hand. “Kostas.”

“I said you could bring her. Not a scribe. He injured one of my best men.”

“She is his mate. I told you she wouldn’t come without him. And I saw him. No permanent damage was done. Please excuse me. This is my fault. I didn’t prepare Malachi to meet you. I thought… I didn’t know how much to say. It would be better to see.”