Standing in her kitchen as the clock crept toward eight, she wrote to Hunt, Please call me. I’m worried about you.

There. Let it shoot into the ether or wherever the messages floated.

She walked Syrinx one final time for the night, her phone clutched in her hand. As if the harder she gripped it, the more likely he’d be to respond.

It was eleven by the time she broke, and dialed a familiar number. Ruhn picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong?”

How he knew, she didn’t care. “I …” She swallowed.

“Bryce.” Ruhn’s voice sharpened. Music was playing in the background, but it began to shift, as if he were moving to a quieter part of wherever he was.

“Have you seen Hunt anywhere today?” Her voice sounded thin and high.

In the background, Flynn asked, “Is everything okay?”

Ruhn just asked her, “What happened?”

“Like, have you seen Hunt at the gun range, or anywhere—”

The music faded. A door slammed. “Where are you?”

“Home.” It hit her then, the rush of how stupid this was, calling him, asking if Ruhn, of all people, knew what the Governor’s personal assassin was doing.

“Give me five minutes—”

“No, I don’t need you here. I’m fine. I just …” Her throat burned. “I can’t find him.” What if Hunt was lying in a pile of bones and flesh and blood?

When her silence dragged on, Ruhn said with quiet intensity, “I’ll put Dec and Flynn on it right—”

The enchantments hummed, and the front door unlocked.

Bryce went still as the door slowly opened. As Hunt, clad in battle-black and wearing that famed helmet, walked in.

Every step seemed like it took all of his concentration. And his scent—

Blood.

Not his own.

“Bryce?”

“He’s back,” she breathed into the phone. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said to her brother, and hung up.

Hunt paused in the center of the room.

Blood stained his wings. Shone on his leather suit. Splattered the visor of his helmet.

“What—what happened?” she managed to get out.

He began walking again. Walked straight past her, the scent of all that blood—several different types of blood—staining the air. He didn’t say a word.

“Hunt.” Any relief that had surged through her now transformed into something sharper.

He headed for his room and did not stop. She didn’t dare to move. He was a wraith, a demon, a—a shadow of death.

This male, helmeted and in his battle clothes … she didn’t know him.

Hunt reached his room, not even looking at her as he shut the door behind him.

He couldn’t stand it.