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The group turned to see where the rapid footsteps were coming from. Loren did the same, feeling like she was stuck in slow motion, her actions always delayed when compared with the others’.

When she caught sight of the man storming down the hallway—and the twin male Reapers emerging from the gloom of narrow corridors, both of them huge as hell—she found herself drifting to Darien’s side. Trotting just in front of the man was a lynx with glowing spots on its shadowy back—the Familiar that Valen had called out of his shadow.

Loren wasn’t sure what she was expecting Malakai Delaney to look like, but it wasn’t this.

His wavy hair was reddish in color and shoulder-length, his beard full and sculpted. One side of his face was covered in faded blue tattoos that looked like symbols of some sort. Ancient Reunerian, she decided. His eyes, bright like emeralds, held a similar intensity to Darien’s, the kind that could burn you to a crisp if he looked at you for too long. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only gray sweatpants that were slung low, the lack of clothing revealing that he had a ton of scars and ink, his body impressively muscled. Two beautiful women were trailing him down the corridor, blankets engulfing their bodies, but they abruptly turned around as soon as they saw what was going on—and who was here.

“Is that him?” Loren whispered.

“He’s hot,” Dallas hissed in her ear. “In that rugged man-who-lives-in-the-mountains sort of way.”

Loren looked at the Reaper again as he charged into the room, his eyes fixated on Darien. “He looks…” She swallowed. “Angry.”

“You motherfucker!” Malakai spat the words. He was heading straight for Darien, pushing past anyone in his path.

Darien said, “He is angry.”

Before Loren could make sense of what was happening, Darien was shoving her out of the way, the force behind the action causing her to slam into Dallas.

Malakai had attacked. He’d already landed several hits on Darien before Darien managed to hit the Reaper back. They were moving so quickly that her human eyes could barely track the fight. People were shouting. Glasses and ornaments were shattering on the floor. Reapers were holding Devils back, and vice versa, as the leaders of both circles whaled on each other.

Blood sprayed. Clothing tore. Fists thudded on flesh. Furniture was knocked over and thrown into the fireplace, wood splinters showering the ornamental rug.

Loren hadn’t seen Darien fight very often, but she knew enough about his abilities that she could tell this was unusual for him. Malakai was his match, and the more hits they exchanged, the sicker Loren felt. Her head spun as she realized she didn’t know which of them would win—or what it would take for them to stop.

Malakai dealt another rapid blow to Darien’s face, the ring on his middle finger splitting Darien’s brow open. Blood misted the air, and Darien barked out a curse word. As Malakai lunged for him, Darien reared back and then forward again with blinding speed, smashing his forehead against the Reaper’s. Bone crunched and more blood sprayed, and Loren wasn’t sure whose it was.

She was moving before she fully realized what she was doing. While everybody was busy holding each other back from intervening, no one had thought anything of the human in the group.

Loren stepped between Darien and Malakai just as the latter was winding back his fist to deal out another blow—an uppercut that Darien would’ve taken straight to the mouth, an attack he was bracing for with slightly bent knees, fists rising to intercept it.

Malakai’s scarred knuckles drew closer in a flash. Loren stumbled back against Darien’s chest, whose sharp intake of breath was audible, even amid all the commotion.

And then Darien’s hand shot out, catching Malakai’s fist half a second before it could connect with her face. Darien’s hand was so close to her that she could feel the heat from his skin, could see every detail on his steel rings. The devil faces wore wicked grins, drops of crimson gleaming like tiny rubies on teeth and horns.

Malakai was gaping at her, his bloody fist frozen in Darien’s grip. No one else in the room was talking or moving, let alone breathing.

The antique clock in the corner ticked loudly.

“I don’t want to have to kill you,” Darien said around tense, panting breaths, “but I will if you don’t back the fuck up.”

The clock ticked even louder. Darien did not let go of Malakai’s fist as the Reaper studied Loren.

She held his stare. No matter how badly she wanted to break it, she held, her breathing steady and quiet.

“Out of the way,” Malakai snarled. There was blood staining his teeth, and she saw that his canines were filed into sharp points that were coated in silver.

Loren lifted her chin. “I’m not moving. If you want him, you’ll have to get through me, and I don’t think you want to find out what will happen if you hit me.”

Another second passed. A second that seemed like an hour.

Malakai tore his hand out of Darien’s grip at the same time that Darien shoved his fist away. The leader of the Reapers was still looking at Loren, the rage that had marred his features a moment ago now replaced with curiosity.

“Sweet fucking tits, you hit hard,” Malakai told Darien.

“So do you.”

“Now I see why you wear those rings.” He swiped his thumb over the bridge of his nose, the skin torn up by the horns on one of the rings. And then the Reaper’s attention went back to her. “You’ve got balls, girl,” Malakai said. “I’ll give you that.”