“Yeah, and it’s a gods-damned madhouse. I just realized I’m in charge now.”

With Micah a bunch of ashes in a vacuum and Sandriel not much better, Isaiah, as Micah’s Commander of the 33rd, was indeed in charge.

“Congrats on the promotion, man.”

“Promotion my ass. I’m not an Archangel. And these assholes know it.” Isaiah snapped at someone in the background, “Then call fucking maintenance to clean it up.” He sighed.

Hunt asked, “What happened to the Asterian fuckheads who sent their brimstone over the walls?” He had half a mind to fly out there and start unleashing his lightning on those tanks.

“Gone. Already moved off.” Isaiah’s dark tone told Hunt he’d be down for some good old-fashioned retribution, too.

Hunt asked, bracing himself, “Naomi?”

“Alive.” Hunt uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Cthona for that mercy. Then Isaiah said, “Look, I know you’re exhausted, but can you get over here? I could use your help to sort this shit out. All these pissing contests will end pretty damn fast if they see us both in charge.”

Hunt tried not to bristle. Bryce and him getting naked, it seemed, would have to wait.

Because the slave tattoo on his wrist meant he still had to obey the Republic, still belonged to someone other than himself. The list of possibilities wasn’t good. He’d be lucky if he got to stay in Lunathion as the possession of whoever took Micah’s spot, and maybe see Bryce in stolen moments. If he was even allowed outside the Comitium.

Fuck, if they even allowed him to live after what he’d done to Sandriel.

Hunt’s hands began to shake. Any trace of arousal vanished.

But he shrugged a shirt over his head. He’d find some way to survive—some way back to this life with Quinlan he’d barely begun to savor. Unable to help himself, he glanced at his wrist.

He blinked once. Twice.

Bryce was just saying goodbye to her deviant mother when the phone beeped with another call. It was from an unknown number, which meant it was probably Jesiba, so Bryce promised Ember they’d talk tomorrow and switched over. “Hey.”

A young, male voice asked, “Is that how you greet all your callers, Bryce Quinlan?”

She knew that voice. Knew the lanky teenage body it belonged to, a shell to house an ancient behemoth. To house an Asteri. She’d seen and heard it on TV so many times she’d lost count.

“Hello, Your Brilliance,” she whispered.

Chapter Ninety-Six

96

Rigelus, the Bright Hand of the Asteri, had called her house. Bryce’s hands shook so badly she could barely keep the phone to her ear.

“We beheld your actions today and wished to extend our gratitude,” the lilting voice said.