“Nice,” said Constantine dryly as he drummed the fingers of one big hand on the scarred, sticky tabletop between them. His back was to the television. “Is that just a general observation, or are you experiencing some kind of emergency with your bowels?”

“It’s her! On television! It’s her!” D sputtered past numb lips.

Constantine closed his eyes for a second longer than a blink and sighed. “You’ve had about a liter of scotch, D. You’re seeing things. Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll—”

“Turn it up!” D shouted at the skinny bartender, silencing Constantine and launching the bartender into motion. He leapt over the counter and flung himself at the television as if his life depended on it. His shaking fingers found the volume knob, and as Constantine, frowning, turned in his chair to look, a female reporter’s modulated voice filled the dim, smoky room.

“…eluded authorities for the past several years in what has become the most infamous string of art thefts in France’s history. Some of the country’s wealthiest citizens and political figures have been victimized, including the prime minister himself, Francois Fillon, whose personal collection of original Picassos valued at more than five million euros was stolen from his home last year while he and his wife were sleeping.”

The picture changed to a scene of a grinning, middle-aged man standing shirtless and tanned with a glass of champagne on the glistening deck of his massive yacht.

“At this point it isn’t known if she was working alone,” the reporter continued as the picture switched back to the crowd milling around the front of the brick building, “but for now the thief known simply as La Chatte is in custody, and we imagine Paris’s beleaguered police chief is heaving a very loud sigh of relief that this protracted chase is over and the elite’s personal fortunes are, once again, safe. Reporting live from the Paris prefecture of police, this is Lisa Campbell with CNN International News. Back to you, Bob.”

D stood staring at the television long after Bob-the-balding-reporter had segued into another story. His breathing was erratic, his heartbeat was wild, and his hands twitched by his side, but all that was secondary to the storm of howling white that raged in his skull.

La Chatte. The Cat. Infamous, elusive thief.

Eliana, love of his life, source of his joy and his pain and three years’ worth of the kind of soul-searing agony he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, was La Chatte. Now in police custody in France.

D’s big hands curled into fists at his side.

In spite of his bulk and the array of weaponry hidden beneath his long black coat, Constantine rose gracefully and soundlessly from his chair. “D,” he said sternly, reading what was plain on his face, “don’t even think about it.”

D’s gaze narrowed. Though most of their kind were beautiful to the point of being meaningless, Constantine—he of the glossy black hair and glorious cheekbones and long, feminine eyelashes—outshone them all. At the moment, D had a mind to wreck that perfect face with a devastating punch to the middle of it.

“Don’t you even think of trying to talk me out if it,” he snarled. He took a step back, and his chair skittered back across the faded checkerboard linoleum with a nerve-scraping screech.

“Celian won’t allow it,” answered Constantine. The subtle adjustments in his stance and the calculation in his eyes signaled he’d made the instant shift from brother to sparring partner. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d gone toe to toe, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. “And she’s wanted by the Council of Alphas—”

“Fuck the Council!” D bellowed. Two humans sitting at a booth in the back stood up and made their way quickly toward the back door.

Constantine set his jaw and leveled him a steely, intense look that would have drained the blood from anyone else’s face. D, however, didn’t bat an eye. Very quietly Constantine said, “Think about this for a minute. If we’ve seen her on television, they’ve seen her, too, and they’re on their way. None of us are authorized to act on this, especially not you. And you know what happens if you go rogue, brother. They’ll take you out before the Bellatorum can even blink. You saw how serious they were. You do not want to get in the way of The Hunt.”

The Hunt. A group of eight of the deadliest hunters picked from the four other Ikati colonies, tasked with one thing: find the missing principessa, her brother, and the small group of loyalists who’d vanished with her three years ago, and bring them in to face the Council.

For interrogation. For elimination.

D’s heart twisted at the thought. “You think I’m going to let them touch her,” he snarled, every inch of him bristling, “you’re crazy! I’m going. Now. With or without your blessing. So you better step back if you want to keep your head attached to your body.”

They stared at each other silently, two muscled, menacing males in black, both alike and yet so different. Same height, same breadth of shoulders, same air of danger, and those black, black eyes. Born and bred in darkness, they were warriors and had a warrior’s fearlessness and sense of pride, and also the willingness to die for what they believed in.

Constantine believed in duty. What D believed in was far more dangerous: love.

“Great Horus save us,” Constantine finally muttered, “from idiots in love.”

Though he doubted even the god of war and protection whose symbol all the Bellatorum had tattooed on their left shoulders could change D’s mind once it was made up. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at D another moment longer until he shook his head and sighed. “And you are an idiot, you know.”

“No argument here,” D answered, still bristling with anger.

Constantine’s mouth twisted. He regarded his brother, thinking of the pain he’d been in the past few years, though of course D had never voiced it aloud. Ironically named after an ancient Greek orator, D often went days without speaking at all. As if the shaved head, multiple tattoos, eyebrow piercings, and air of murderous rage weren’t enough, his silence lent him an even more frightening aspect. A glance from him sent most people running.

Constantine saw past that, though. They’d known each other since birth, and though not brothers by Blood they were brothers in spirit, and as D lost hope, Constantine saw him slowly, surely dying, day by miserable day. He’d thought D would get over her in time, forget her, but Eliana and the memory of what could have been haunted him like a ghost.

And now that ghost had been captured by the Paris police.

“But two idiots are better than one,” Constantine decided, loyalty winning out over logic. “I’ll go with you.”

D’s body relaxed a little, and the tension went out of his shoulders. Just because they’d sparred in the past didn’t mean either one looked forward to another go-round. “No. I have to do this alone.” He paused. “You know why.”

Three years’ worth of history passed between them with a single, pointed look.

“Don’t be an asshole!” Constantine snapped.

D met his gaze head-on but didn’t respond.

“Are we really going to do this again? Here?” Constantine gestured to indicate their surroundings, the dive bar he despised but came to because he didn’t want his best friend and brother to drown his sorrows alone. “Fine, then, let’s do it! If I didn’t shoot that son of a bitch, you’d be dead. We’d all still be living like slaves. Your girl would be married to some idiot from the Optimates that you’d want to kill every time you got near him—”

“I know,” D interrupted. “You saved my life. You saved all of us. I know.”

“But you’ll never forgive me for it,” Constantine said flatly.

D paused for the barest of seconds. “I hated that bastard as much as you did. More.”