Anger, a bright, sharp thing, continued to sing a piercing song in her blood, but she said, “Hello, Illium,” when he grabbed a chair from another table and swiveled it to sit with his arms braced on the back, his amazing wings sloping down to brush the floor.
“Hello, Honor St. Nicholas.” His eyes, those beautiful golden eyes tipped with the most impossible lashes, locked on her. “You look like you want to use a knife on someone’s flesh, watch the blood bead on their skin.”
“Yes,” she admitted, “but I have to wait.”
Illium stole her champagne, took a sip, shuddered. “Never did like that stuff.” Putting the flute back on the table, he turned to Dmitri. “Word is, Tommy’s gone underground because he’s scared of someone. It was before Honor was assigned to the Tower, so it’s not you.”
Dmitri’s eyes never shifted off Evert Markson. “Do me a favor. Fly to Evert’s home and see if you find anything interesting.”
The blue-winged angel left without further conversation.
Beside her, Dmitri smiled and it was a cold, cold smile. She knew who he had in his sights before she turned her head and saw Evert. Swallowing compulsively as he shoved the brunette off his lap without care, his eyes skittered between Dmitri and Honor. The recognition in those eyes was a stabbing confirmation that Tommy had taken his best friend into the game.
When Dmitri did nothing to stop the vampire from leaving, she began to rise. He clamped a hand over her wrist. “Let him stew in his fear, Honor.” Dmitri’s murmur was a brush of silk over her senses. “Evert isn’t as smart as Tommy. I know where he’s going.”
It was hard to sit back and watch one of the men who had tortured her walk out of her sight. “You could be wrong.”
A thumb moving over her skin. “I’m not.”
She looked down, startled to realize that he was touching her . . . and she had no urge to pull away. “Is it only the scent thing you do, Dmitri?” she asked, feeling a languorous warmth invade her blood. “Or do you have other compulsions at your command?”
“I’ll leave that for you to figure out.” Stroking her once more, he stood. “Let’s go play with our prey.”
Honor held her words inside until they were driving through the misty gray skies painted by the last edge of night, the wind cool, with a bite that hinted at rain. “I don’t want to become that cold.” To lose her humanity. “I don’t want to take pleasure in the pain of others.”
Shifting gears with ruthless ease, Dmitri began to head toward the Manhattan Bridge. “Sometimes there is no choice.”
The ancient darkness of his words wrapped around her. She’d already told herself he was a man who would never share his secrets, but she couldn’t not ask, couldn’t not attempt to see beneath the deadly, sophisticated surface when it came to Dmitri. “What did Isis do to you?” Instinct—primal, visceral—told her that that was the genesis of what he’d become—a predator who had very few moral lines he would not cross.
His hair whipped off his face as he took them onto the bridge, the car purring sleek and dangerous over the wide span. “I’m not beautiful like Illium, but I’m a man women want in their beds.”
Yes, she thought. To look at Dmitri was to think of sex. Rich, dark eyes, black hair, skin of a tempting, warm shade between honey and brown, lips that spoke of pleasure and pain, a body that moved with a lethal grace that incited sexual fantasies of how he might move with—inside—a woman. “But you’re not a man who can be owned.” To try would be both foolish and dangerous. “You’ll choose your own lovers.”
“Isis didn’t think so.” No change in his expression. “I was mortal then, weak. She wanted me and when I said no, she took me.”
“Whoever it was that took you, hunter”—a long, slow lick along her inner thigh—“I owe them my thanks.”
She curled her hands into fists. “She hurt you.”
No answer.
It was perhaps twenty minutes later that he brought the car to a silent stop down the street from a modern dual-level home set behind a small green hedge. Painted what appeared to be a stylish black, the window frames and the roof were picked out in a deep red striking even in the monochrome shadows before dawn.
“This can’t be Evert’s place.” He’d been wearing a platinum watch, an Italian suit. Not the kind of man who’d be satisfied with a small, albeit fashionable home.
“It’s owned by his former mistress,” Dmitri answered after they’d exited the car and begun to head toward the front of the house. “Evert believes Shae continues to have a soft spot for him.” He produced a key. “He’s wrong.” Unlocking the door, he entered on silent feet.
Honor followed, reaching back to snick the door closed. The hallway was devoid of light except for the subtle glow of the small wall lamp by the staircase, but the house wasn’t as quiet as it should’ve been at this time of the morning. Retrieving her gun, she held it by her side as they climbed the stairs, Dmitri with the grace of a panther, her with a more mortal stride.