“Seeing who you were before Valeria and Tommy.” He pulled out a short scarlet dress with a plunging neckline and no back. “This, I like.”
Honor, her cheeks as red as the dress, grabbed the hanger from him. “For your information, I never wore this. It was a gift from a friend.”
His enthusiasm cooled. “That’s the kind of dress a man buys.”
“Or a girlfriend who likes to jerk my chain,” she muttered, shoving the dress back into the closet. “Now get out.”
He reached in to pull out a number of other items instead, throwing them on the bed. Shirts and simple tops, for the most part, but all of them fitted. Nothing like the shapeless tees and sweatshirts she’d taken to wearing. Throwing them on the bed, he said, “Get dressed properly and I’ll show you something you’ve never before seen.”
Glaring at him, she started to put the clothing back. “I happen to be working—the rest of the ink won’t decode itself.”
A cold burn of anger invading his veins at the reminder of Isis, he shut the closet doors with deliberate care. “From what I saw,” he said in a tempered voice, “you’ve been going around in circles.”
A blown-out breath. “I’ve almost got it. It’s there on the tip of my tongue.”
“A break will help.” While she dressed, he’d make a few calls, including one to Jason. If someone was attempting to revive or revere Isis in any way, shape, or form, Dmitri wanted to know. So he could crush the repugnance.
Movement, Honor walking to the vanity to pick up a brush. “Where are we heading?”
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
Narrowed eyes. “Leave so I can get dressed.”
“Don’t take too long.” Striding out to her glare, he began to make his phone calls. Jason hadn’t heard even a whisper of anything related to an angel named Isis, but promised to alert his network. Dmitri also contacted Illium, instructing him to brief the rest of the Seven. His final call was to Raphael.
The archangel’s response was simple. “You’re certain?”
“Yes,” he said, understanding the question. “I’ll handle it.” Isis was his nightmare.
Hanging up, he was staring out at a Manhattan still swathed in the graying kiss of night, the Tower dominating the skyline, when the scent of wildflowers in bloom grew stronger. It tugged at long-buried emotions in him, that scent, made him remember the mortal he’d been so many years ago that entire civilizations had risen and fallen during his lifetime.
“Let’s go.”
He turned to see Honor dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a loose white shirt. “I said properly dressed.” He knew full well what she was doing with her shapeless clothing, and it turned him merciless. “Just because the predators can’t get a good look at you doesn’t mean they don’t consider you fresh meat.”
Fury spotted red high across her cheekbones. “Fuck you, Dmitri.”
“Right now?” He gave her a deliberately taunting smile. “Come over here, then, darling.”
He saw her hand twitch, knew she was fighting the urge to go for her gun, drill him in the heart. “You know what?” she said. “I think I’d prefer my own company. Get out.”
“Pathetic, Honor,” he said, well aware the painful buttons he was pressing. “Valeria—if she still has her tongue, which is doubtful—would be laughing at what she’s made you.”
Honor went motionless. “I think I’m starting to hate you.”
“Doesn’t bother me.” There was strength in hate. It was why he’d survived that dungeon. “It’ll make it even sweeter when I have you naked and wet for me.”
Not answering, she slammed her way into her bedroom. Ten long minutes later she stepped back out. This time, her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, she was dressed in skintight jeans tucked into knee-high black boots, topped with a close-fitting black tee over which she’d thrown a hip-length leather jacket in the same shade. He’d been right—her breasts were luscious, her body a knockout.
Walking over to stop bare inches from a female form that was all but vibrating with rage, he reached out to touch her, the compulsion undeniable. A blur of movement, an elbow to his chest, his legs being kicked out from under him, and suddenly he was crashing onto the floor, looking up at an Honor who was no victim.
Dmitri laughed.
Honor didn’t know what she’d expected, but that laugh, deep and masculine and hotly real, wasn’t it. When he lifted a hand toward her, she ignored it . . . though it was troubling, how much she wanted to straddle that beautiful body and lean down to kiss those sensual, laughing lips—as if he hadn’t just cut into her with the pitiless blade of his voice.
His laughter faded into a smile that was very, very male. “Come here.”
She walked to the door instead . . . but she was no longer so sure that when it came to this madness inside her, a madness that bore Dmitri’s name, that she’d emerge the winner.