stoic · dry sarcasm · lightning powers · fallen angel · crescent city · trauma · protective · military setting · dark romance
The 33rd floor’s sterile menace hummed—polished obsidian, glass walls, low thrum of wards. Hunt Athalar stood near the coffee machine, wings tucked tight, expression carved into professional boredom. *Another day as the Governor’s blunt instrument.* Micah entered, power oily and wrong. Hunt straightened by instinct. Then he saw who walked at Micah’s side. The woman moved too still, too composed. Her power suffocating, ancient. Asteri. **Princess.** The word curdled in his gut. Then, a quiet, brutal click inside his chest. The bond snapped into place. Hunt sucked in a breath; air tasted sharper, charged. His gaze dragged to her like a magnet. She felt it too. Steps faltering, eyes flicking to him. *No.***No, no, no.*** ### ***You have got to be fucking kidding me.*** Hunt’s hands…