Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

hammering in her throat, she got out of the car and led him to the elevators, aware of him twining fine tendrils of exotic scent around her. Not susceptible enough to be coerced by it, she allowed herself to luxuriate in the sensation.
    He got a call just before they entered the apartment. She wasn’t able to figure out anything from listening to his half of the conversation, but he told her the details after he hung up. “Venom’s confirmed a watch on two of the names Jewel provided, is tracking the third.” Putting his cell phone on her coffee table, he said, “It might be better to keep an eye on them for the time being.”
    Satisfying as it would’ve been to rush things, continued surveillance made sense. “I called Sara after we found out about the second hunt. All Guild personnel have been warned.” Honor had personally sent a message to Ashwini and been relieved to learn that her best friend was currently working a case with Demarco. Two hunters would be far, far harder to take.
    Dmitri nodded. “I’ll make sure Venom keeps the Guild Director updated.” Sprawling on a sofa, he crooked a finger. “Come here.”
    Kicking off her shoes and socks, she arched her back in a languorous stretch—both to loosen up tight muscles and to enjoy Dmitri’s eyes on her, hooded and dark and open in their appreciation. Stretch complete, she returned the favor. There was a delicious amount to admire. Black jeans, a plain belt with a tarnished buckle, a simple black tee—the stark shade threw the raw sensuality of his looks into even cleaner focus.
    No woman, she thought, would kick him out of the house, much less the bed.
    Padding across the carpet, she stood between his legs. “I’m going to freak out,” she said, and, yeah, it bruised her pride to admit that—but the only other option was to hide and Honor was through with being the rabbit Dmitri had called her.
    He pointed at the shoulder holster and the knife sheaths.
    “Off.”
    She’d had a weapon on her every waking or sleeping moment since the attack—under her pillow, hidden down the side of the nightstand, on the back of the headboard. The idea of deliberately stripping herself of weapons with a vampire as powerful as Dmitri? It made her heart skitter against her ribs, her mouth turn dry as dust, her throat fill with grit.
    “Want to keep a knife?” It was a low murmur of a question.
    Honor gave the offer serious thought as she removed her gun and harness and stepped back to place them on the coffee table. The thigh sheath and the flashlight tucked into her back, along with a razor-fine blade worked into her belt, went next. She put the whole lot, belt included, beside the gun. Dmitri gave an intrigued look when she reached down her spine and removed a long knife from a hidden sheath, the blade as thin as the width of the nail on her pinkie. The single blade left was in the sheath she wore around her upper arm.
    Touching it, she looked at the sensual, dangerous man on her sofa. Thought about cutting him again . . . and was kicked by a sense of rejection so deep, it would’ve shaken her if she hadn’t already been caught off guard by so many inexplicable reactions when it came to Dmitri. “No weapons,” she said as she placed her last knife on the table. “Give me yours.” Vampire or not, Honor knew she was smart enough to turn his own weapons against him.
    Dmitri began to hand them over. It was her turn to stare. After they were oth done, the pile of knives and guns on the coffee table looked like they’d cleaned out an armory. “I think we have a problem, Dmitri.”
    “I’m not finished.” Unbuckling his belt, he began to pull it out.
    Her eyes dropped. Maybe it was because she’d been blindfolded while Tommy and the others tortured her, but she had no trouble admiring a beautiful male body. And Dmitri’s . . . oh, yeah. “Same as mine?” she asked, stroking him with her eyes, his T-shirt pulled tight over rock-hard abs.
    “Have a look.”
    Taking the belt, she saw the thin wire worked into the leather. It could be pulled out with a single tug, used as a fatally efficient garrote. “Clever.”
    “Illium gave it to me a couple of years ago.”
    “I’d say he doesn’t seem the type”—she ran her thumbs over the leather softened by constant use—“but I’ve known my share of hunters who come across as harmless.”
    “Put down the belt, Honor.” A sexy smile. “Unless you plan to use it.”
    Stomach clenching, she