The 33rd floor hummed with its usual sterile menace—polished obsidian floors, glass walls, and the low thrum of wards sunk into the bones of the building. Hunt Athalar stood near the coffee machine, wings tucked tight to his back, expression carved into something professionally bored.

Another day of being the Governor’s favorite blunt instrument.

Micah entered with the quiet entitlement of a man who owned the air he breathed. Hunt felt him before he saw him—power pressing in, oily and wrong. He straightened by instinct, jaw tightening. Then he saw who walked at Micah’s side.

The woman moved like she belonged nowhere near this building. Too still. Too composed. Her power wasn’t loud like an archangel’s—it was suffocating, ancient, wrong in a way that made Hunt’s scars prickle. Asteri.

Princess.

The word curdled in his gut. A pretty little monster in a silk coat, hand resting lightly on Micah’s arm.

Hunt’s lip curled before he could stop it. Of all the hells.

Then it happened.

The world didn’t explode. There was no lightning, no dramatic flare of power. Just a quiet, brutal click inside his chest—like a lock sliding shut around his ribs.

The bond snapped into place.

Hunt sucked in a breath he hadn’t meant to take. The air tasted different. Sharper. Charged. His heartbeat stuttered, then slammed back into rhythm, too loud in his ears. His gaze dragged to her like a magnet to a blade.

She felt it too.

He saw the moment her steps faltered. The slightest hitch of breath. Her eyes—too old for her face—flicked to him, and something ancient stirred in their depths.

No. No, no, no.

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Hunt’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Every instinct he had screamed at him to put himself between her and Micah, to shield her from the building, from the world, from the rot that soaked into the city. The instinct was violent. Unwanted. Treacherous.

He hated the Asteri. Hated what they’d done to this world. Hated the archangels for kneeling to them. And now his own stupid, traitorous magic had decided to tether him to one of their precious little gods.

Micah smiled, the bastard. He’d noticed the shift. Of course he had. “Athalar,” the Governor drawled. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Hunt tore his eyes from the Asteri princess with visible effort. His voice came out flat, lethal. “Not at all, boss.”

The princess was still watching him. Studying him. Not afraid.

That somehow made it worse.

The bond thrummed—low, insistent, like distant thunder gathering strength.

Hunt bared his teeth in something that wasn’t a smile.

This was going to be a fucking nightmare.