Guild Hunter 04 - Archangel's Blade

had to seize the moment, regardless of the consequences. To allow it to pass might mean it would never again come.
    “Dmitri, come dance with me.”
    “My feet ache from the fields, Ingrede. After I return from the markets?”
    A smile that lit up the room, though fear lurked a silent intruder in her eyes. “After you return.”
    Except Isis’s men had taken him when he returned. His last memory of his wife was of her holding their children and trying not to betray the terror that had turned her warm brown eyes an impossible ebony.
    He could never go back, never dance with his wife while Misha laughed and the baby kicked her legs in the air, but he could kiss this woman who had somehow become a part of him, her gaze holding mysteries he was driven to solve. “It’s time, Honor.”
    He saw the skin pull tight over her cheekbones, knew she wasn’t certain she wouldn’t panic, slash out at him in self-defensive violence, but her answer was a simple, powerful, “Yes.”
     
     
    Honor took in her surroundings in silence as Dmitri led her up off the level painted that gleaming, dangerous black and to the top floor of the Tower. It proved to be carpeted in white with glittering threads of gold, the paint on the walls that same gold-flecked white, the artwork a mix of old and new—a brilliant tapestry of a place of mountain and sky, on which perched dwellings whose doors opened out into thin air; a gleaming sword sharp as a razor; a framed poster of the ridiculous television show Hunter’s Prey , complete with the muscle-bound lead and his “vampire vixen.”
    “Illium bought it for Elena,” Dmitri said, following her gaze. “It should be interesting to see her reaction.”
    Honor’s lips twitched. “They’re good friends.”
    A shadow drifted across Dmitri’s expression, but all he said was, “Yes,” before adding, “Raphael’s suite occupies half the floor. The rest of the area is divided into quarters for the Seven, though mine takes up double the space of the others since I spend the most time in the city.”
    She hesitated. “You don’t have another home?”
    “It never seemed necessary.”
    Honor heard a thousand unsaid things in that statement, understood that the idea of home held a pain for him he would never seek to re-create.
    “Don’t worry,” he said before she could say anything, “the square footage of each apartment is larger than that of most stand-alone houses, and the walls are soundproofed to ensure total privacy.”
    Honor had nothing against the setup and was quite certain his apartment was a sprawling space ten times the size of her own. But—“No, Dmitri. Not here.”
    “Why?” A question asked w glit cool sophistication that might’ve intimidated her once, but now made her wonder what Dmitri didn’t want her to see that he’d put up those silken shields.
    “It isn’t right.” Honor stood her ground, the voice inside of her whispering that this moment was critical to how Dmitri would see her. “I refuse to be just another woman you take to your bed.”
    Dmitri rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, no hint of any readable emotion on his face. “You think which bed it is makes a difference?”
    There was, she thought, such cruelty in him at that moment. He could hurt her badly and walk away as if it mattered nothing. “Perhaps not for you,” she whispered, knowing the time for breaking things off, for protecting herself, had long passed, “but for me, yes.”
    A silence. As taut, as dangerous, as the garrote worked into Dmitri’s belt.

28
     
    It was the sound of the elevator opening downthe hallway that seemed to decide Dmitri. “Yes, interruptions are far more likely here.”
    Such a practical reason, but one she was willing to accept for the present.
    Leaving the Tower, they drove to her building and headed up to the apartment that she was slowly, carefully making into a home. Hunters did that. Ashwini’s apartment was a lush place full of color—cushions of gold-shot silk, sculptures picked up here and there, postcards of spice-heavy stalls in faraway markets. Honor’s was less exuberant, but she’d taken her personal mementos out of boxes—items Ash had left as they were—started to unpack them.
    Now, framed snapshots cascaded down one wall of her living room—a laughing grandmother snapped during a hunt in Mexico, a mountain storm captured in Colorado, a single elk against the snow in Alaska—while her battered but beloved camera sat on the