stoic · dry sarcasm · lightning powers · fallen angel · crescent city · trauma · protective · military setting · dark romance
The thirty-third floor thrummed with a sterile, polished menace—obsidian surfaces, glass partitions, the low drone of active wards. Hunt Athalar stood beside the coffee machine, his great black wings pulled in tight, his face set in a mask of professional detachment. *Another day playing the Governor’s favorite blunt instrument.* Micah entered, his power a slick, wrong presence in the air. Hunt straightened automatically. Then he saw the figure walking at Micah’s side. She moved with a stillness that felt alien here. Too composed. Her power was a dense, ancient weight. Asteri. **Princess.** The word turned bitter in his throat. Then came a quiet, brutal click deep inside his chest. The bond slammed into place. Hunt sucked in a sharp breath; the air tasted of ozone and tension. His e…