Ruhn cleared the porch and front lawn and stepped into the street, holding out a hand to the car that skidded to a screeching halt. His hand hit the hood, fingers curving. Metal dented beneath it.

The driver, wisely, didn’t scream.

Ruhn strode between two parked sedans, Declan and Flynn close behind, just as Hunt turned to see what the fuss was about.

Understanding flashed in Hunt’s eyes, quickly replaced by a half smile. “Prince.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Hunt jerked his chin toward Bryce, already disappearing down the street. “Protection duty.”

“Like Hel you’re watching her.” Isaiah Tiberian had failed to mention this, too.

A shrug. “Not my call.” The halo across his brow seemed to darken as he sized up Declan and Flynn. Athalar’s mouth twitched upward, onyx eyes glinting with an unspoken challenge.

Flynn’s gathering power had the earth beneath the pavement rumbling. Hunt’s shit-eating grin only spread.

Ruhn said, “Tell the Governor to put someone else on the case.”

Hunt’s grin sharpened. “Not an option. Not when it plays to my expertise.”

Ruhn bristled at the arrogance. Sure, Athalar was one of the best demon-hunters out there, but fuck, he’d even take Tiberian on this case over the Umbra Mortis.

A year ago, the Commander of the 33rd hadn’t been dumb enough to get between them when Ruhn had launched himself at Athalar, having had enough of his snide remarks at the fancy-ass Spring Equinox party Micah threw every March. He’d broken a few of Athalar’s ribs, but the asshole had gotten in a punch that had left Ruhn’s nose shattered and gushing blood all over the marble floors of the Comitium’s penthouse ballroom. Neither of them had been pissed enough to unleash their power in the middle of a crowded room, but fists had done just fine.

Ruhn calculated how much trouble he’d be in if he punched the Governor’s personal assassin again. Maybe it’d be enough to get Hypaxia Enador to refuse to consider marrying him.

Ruhn demanded, “Did you figure out what kind of demon did it?”

“Something that eats little princes for breakfast,” Hunt crooned.

Ruhn bared his teeth. “Blow me, Athalar.”

Lightning danced over the angel’s fingers. “Must be easy to run your mouth when you’re bankrolled by your father.” Hunt pointed to the white house. “He buy that for you, too?”

Ruhn’s shadows rose to meet the lightning wreathing Athalar’s fists, setting the parked cars behind him shuddering. He’d learned from his cousins in Avallen how to make the shadows solidify—how to wield them as whips and shields and pure torment. Physical and mental.

But mixing magic and drugs was never a good idea. Fists it would have to be, then. And all it would take was one swing, right into Athalar’s face—

Declan growled, “This isn’t the time or place.”