It looked less like an office and more like a cocoon, a place built for secrets and strategy.
Oh boy. Ash pressed a hand to her heaving stomach.
A faint surge of power rippled through the air, brushing over her skin like static, and her own ability stirred in response. Ash’s breath hitched.
The study door swung open, and a tall figure—taller than Race—strode inside. Even the air bent to make space for him. He carelessly pushed back strands of ebony hair escaping his half ponytail, revealing sharp cheekbones and a hard mouth on a forbiddingly handsome face. Mirrored sunglasses reflected the fading daylight like two shards of molten glass.
“Where the hell have you been?” His voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Ash shuddered and hurriedly stepped back, so sure her heart would crash through her sternum. Race put his hand on her hip, steadying her. He snorted, didn’t seem in the least bit bothered.
“Michael’s in the house.” Týr’s grin flashed, clearly enjoying the drama.
This was the archangel?
Ash had no idea what she expected. Someone in flowing robes, glowing wings, perhaps?
Instead, he looked like he’d stepped off a Harley ad, wearing faded black jeans, scuffed leather boots, and a thin gray t-shirt—worn through from one too many washes—that stretched across his broad shoulders. An aura of barely leashed peril clung to him like a second skin.
He stopped near his desk and pushed his shades up. Ash’s breath caught.
His eyes resembled broken sapphires, veins of molten silver flickering between the fractures—alive with a light that didn’t belong to this world.
“Yeah, I’ve been detained. Couldn’t get free,” Race murmured.
Michael’s eyes narrowed.
The door opened again, and Race’s deep sigh warmed her nape. Two enormous males entered the study.
The Guardians?
They could be nothing else, with their towering height and predatory grace, dressed in black leather like Race had worn when she first crashed into him in the Himalayas. Living weapons, every one of them.
“So, you’re back?” The blue-haired one smirked, his gaze shifting from her to Race.
“Did you send out a roll call?” Race growled at someone.
“Didn’t need to.” Týr grinned, his eyes dancing as he spun the basketball on a fingertip.
Kira, who stood beside him, shook her head and flashed Ash a reassuring smile, as if to say all was fine.
It wasn’t. If Race hadn’t been holding her, she would have collapsed onto the carpet in a trembling heap as anxiety dug its claws deeper into her.
“We all felt the wards trigger when the portal opened,” blue-hair added, voice teasing. “Can’t have any ol’ riffraff waltzing in here, now, can we?”
“Race.” The other male, broad-shouldered with sun-streaked brown hair and ice green eyes, strode over and bumped fists with him. “Glad you’re back and in one piece, man. What the fuck happened?” he demanded. “It’s been weeks without a word?”
“I’m still breathing, Nik,” Race drawled. “Just call Blaéz and Lore, so I can say all this once.”
“We’re here.” A man with short dark hair and cobalt-blue eyes sauntered inside. “Lore,” he drawled to the redheaded male with him. “Seems the dragon missed you.”
Lore inclined his head, looking amused as he leaned a shoulder against the bookshelf opposite them.
Oh, boy.Ash rubbed her hands on her coat. The small study shrank even further. Bodies filled the tiny space like a living barricade, cutting off escape and air. She’d been around big males before—Attor, Skaldr, and Koal—but that had been inside enormous caves or outside, with sky and distance.
Now, surrounded by raw power and that undercurrent of dominance, she could barely breathe. She swallowed hard and stepped closer to Race, her pulse racing as her power prickled beneath her skin.
God, not now—not now.
