It stopped him short, because it was exactly what he was doing. Malachi was protecting Ava from his own terror. His own fear. Because he didn’t want her to know he felt weak.

“I’m sorry.” He went to her and enclosed her in his arms. “I’m sorry, Ava. I didn’t think—didn’t realize. You’re right.”

She didn’t offer any smart remarks, but she didn’t return the hug, either.

“Forgive me?” he asked. “For doubting you.”

Her shoulders relaxed and she hugged him back. “Only if you forgive me for being forgetful.”

He huffed out a breath. “Why are we fighting about this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then enough. I suspect Volund was trying to torment me since he couldn’t get to you. But he wasn’t able to hurt me in any way.”

“And I don’t know what Azril wants, but I’m pretty sure he’s on our side.”

Malachi’s mouth opened, then closed. He finally said, “I’m honestly not sure what to do with that.”

“Me either.” She took a deep breath and stepped back. “Should we tell Damien?”

“Yes. About both of us.” He walked toward the kitchen, bracing himself in the doorway. “He might be furious we’re just telling him now.”

“He’s not the boss of me.”

Malachi gave her a wry smile over his shoulder. “Well, he is of me. Nevertheless, with the schedule we’ve been keeping, he can hardly blame us for not remembering every dream we have.”

“I’m sorry.” Ava wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her cheek to his back. “I would never keep something from you if I thought it could help.”

He put his hands over hers. “I know. And I have to remember, you’re a woman who is accustomed to keeping her own secrets. I can’t expect you to change that overnight just because you’re mated to me. I’ve been part of a team for centuries. And Azril tampered with your mind. If anyone should have sympathy for that, it’s me.”

She squeezed his waist. “You’re right. You’re being such a jerk right now.”

The laugh burst out of him. He pulled her around to the front and hugged her. “We’re still new at this, aren’t we?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry.” He kissed the top of her head before he released her and walked to the phone. “We have hundreds of years to get it right.”

Hundreds of years. He had to believe it. The Creator wouldn’t have brought them together again just to rip them back apart.

Would He?

MALACHI lingered in bed the next morning as long as he could, knowing that it might be days before he would have Ava to himself again. They made love quietly. Deliberately. He memorized her face in the morning light and whispered promises that he would see her soon.

“Soon,” she whispered back.

Then she hid under the covers while Malachi slipped out the door, and he pretended he hadn’t seen her tears.

Today was the day he would break all the rules.

He was bringing a Grigori into the sacred house, sneaking him into the halls of knowledge, and stealing ancient weapons from Mikhael’s armory.

If his mother were alive, she would kill him. Or congratulate him. He wasn’t sure which.

A year and a half ago, Malachi knew who the enemy was. He was his father’s son. A scribe of Mikhael’s line. Taking vengeance on the sons of the Fallen. He walked alone, with no mate and no family.

And then…

One moment in the market. One glance from a golden eye. Like a small rudder charting the path of a massive ship, the course of his life had turned with a single touch.

Ava.

He had died. He had lived. He held a mate in his arms and in his heart. Everything he knew about his race’s history he now questioned. Everything he’d trusted could be a lie. He was fighting alongside his enemies to protect the one person he could no longer live without. He would play the pawn in Jaron’s games and play the comrade to a villain, all so he could be a hero for the one woman who called him home.

There was no reason to feel peace as he walked through the snow-dusted streets of Vienna, but he did.

Damien, Rhys, Kostas, and an unknown scribe met him outside the town house.

“Are you ready?” his watcher asked.

“Are you?”

Damien gave him half a smile. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s time.”

THE house the stranger took them to was hidden behind a block of new construction on the other side of the river. They walked in silence, the empty scent of Kostas a void to Malachi’s senses.

“You’ve told your brothers?” Damien asked the unknown scribe quietly.

A nod was his only answer.

“Do they know what he is?”

The strange scribe held up a single gloved finger. One.

“We thank you both for your help.”

Malachi and Kostas exchanged a look, but he could see the Grigori was as lost as he was. Rhys walked behind them, texting with someone as they walked. When they reached the house, he remained waiting outside.

“Waiting for a call,” was his only explanation.

They entered the warm house and stomped their feet, taking off their boots and coats before the stranger motioned them down a narrow hallway.

He was a big man, dark of hair and face, with features that spoke of the Eastern Mediterranean. Malachi realized that while he’d removed his gloves and overcoat, his hands remained wrapped and his neck was covered in what looked like linen strips. He walked in a shroud, silently motioning them into a room at the end of the hallway.

It was a ritual room, carved wooden panels bearing the spells of hundreds of scribes. Malachi narrowed his eyes and stepped closer.

“Of course,” he said when he finally interpreted the passage over the door. “They’re Rafaene scribes.”

Kostas whispered, “What?”

Damien nodded. “Our guide is our friend Evren’s son. He took vows in Spain last year, and his father intervened for us. I believe only he and his watcher know we are here.”

“And they agreed to help us?” Malachi asked. “Rafaenes are removed from politics.”

“But their mission commands shelter and protection of those in need.”

Kostas asked, “What is a Rafaene scribe?”

“You need to take off your clothes,” Damien said. “All of them. Every stitch. I’ll explain as we wrap you, but the process takes some time and we don’t have much of it.”

The stranger motioned to Malachi and he went to him, taking bundle after bundle of fine linen clothes that looked like bandages and stacking them in a basket as Damien spoke to Kostas.

“All Irin males have the same schooling beginning at the age of thirteen. We are trained as both warriors and scholars, though after some time, it becomes evident where our particular gifts lie. Scholars tend to retreat to libraries or work in the business world. Warriors go to scribe houses to protect humans and hunt Grigori.”

“Yes,” Kostas said, “I’m rather familiar with those.”

“For some,” Damien continued, “particularly those of the angel Rafael’s line, the cost of being a warrior comes at great cost. Rafael’s line is known for their healing ability. For Rafael’s sons, even though they are of great skill, hunting takes a toll. To help with this, the Rafaene order was established hundreds of years ago.”

Kostas looked at the man stacking bundles of linen. “He is a warrior?”

“A deadly opponent I would not like to meet in battle, despite his age,” Damien said.

Malachi saw the young Rafaene smile, but he did not stop his task, dipping each bundle of linen in the clear water heating over the sacred fire.

“Rafaenes take a vow of silence and eschew any unnecessary contact,” Damien explained. “They wrap their bodies in clean linen to deprive the senses and maintain quiet as much as physically possible. The idea is to take those years of silence and sensory isolation to practice meditation so they do not lose their souls in battle.”