Since her own boots would only take seconds to pull on, she leaned in the doorway and just watched him. He’d gone for “formal warrior” in his clothing choice and she approved. Black gauntlets covered each of his forearms, the same color as his pants and shirt. That shirt had no sleeves and was patterned on fighting leathers; two thin black strips of leather ran across his shoulders, and in place of the collarless neckline of fighting leathers, this one had a raised mandarin collar closed on the right with a steel black pin that echoed the Legion mark.

Closing down one side of his chest rather than in the middle, the shirt had no visible buttons, but it not only fit flawlessly across his chest, it did the same around his wings.

Aside from the pin, which only became visible at close quarters, there was only a single point of ornamentation on his body—the ring of platinum and amber that he wore as a symbol of Elena’s claim. Elena wore her own amber in her ears—and in the blade strapped to her upper arm. It had taken her months of owning the gift to realize there were pieces of highly polished amber embedded in among the gemstones.

Her archangel was just slightly possessive.

Smiling, she walked over to join him when he rose to his feet. The stark black of his clothing threw the brilliant blue of his eyes and the Cascade mark into brutal focus. “You look like a primal warrior barely contained.” The sophistication remained, but it had a harsh edge that would remind everyone of his origins as a man honed in combat.

“Good.” Raphael watched in silence as she slipped on her soft calf-length “gown boots”—because Elena did not do heels. “Ready?”

“Let’s go show them how New Yorkers do things.”

* * *

The first person Elena saw when she walked into the glass- ceilinged Atrium—as the huge room with the high ceiling had been described by the guide who’d left them at the door—was Michaela. The archangel who’d once been known as the Queen of Constantinople and now controlled the vast majority of Europe as well as part of what had once been Uram’s territory was wearing a gown of darkest green that hugged her every curve and had a neckline that plunged almost to her belly button.

In a fairer world, that would’ve made her look trashy.

This wasn’t a fair world: the Archangel of Budapest, Michaela taking her current title from the city in which she kept her court, looked like the embodiment of beauty. Her skin had no blemishes, her curves the catalyst for a million wet dreams, her face all clean lines put together with haunting perfection and her eyes an intense green—jewels without flaw but for the ring of a lighter acidic green that, at times, appeared without warning around her irises.

Uram’s taint.

The acid wasn’t present today. Michaela had also put up her hair, into a complicated pattern it must’ve taken someone an hour to create. It revealed the swanlike elegance of her neck.

Then there were the stunning wings of delicate bronze that she held off the floor with effortless muscle control.

There was a reason Michaela was known as the most beautiful woman in existence.

Beyond her, past the cream-colored settees arranged into seating areas, and the meticulously set dinner table, right against the wall on the very far side of the Atrium, stood her psychotic pet vampire, Riker—Elena had caught his jarringly evocative scent when she entered the room: cedar painted with ice. Of course, he was handsome, too, all blond hair and eyes of darkest brown, his wide-shouldered, slim-hipped body that of a fashion model. Psycho didn’t mean ugly, not among mortals or immortals.

And Elena didn’t think Michaela tolerated physical imperfection.

Catching her glance, Riker smiled . . . and licked his tongue over his lips.

Creep.

She didn’t give him the benefit of a response, focusing her attention on his mistress.

Michaela was looking up at Titus and laughing at something the warrior archangel was saying. Big and heavily muscled, his skin gleaming jet and his smile a dazzling thing, his wings powerful, Titus was no slouch in the looks department, but it was his sex appeal that most impacted women. Obviously, even Michaela wasn’t immune.

“I don’t think I’ve ever before seen Michaela actually laughing,” she said to Raphael, the two of them far enough away and the room cavernous enough that no one could hear them. “Not when she’s not putting on an act.” It made the other woman even more extraordinarily beautiful.

And Elena could see how men would fall for her.

“At least Titus has the brains not to bite down on any lures she may throw out,” was Raphael’s response. “He has seen through her for an eon.”

“Good. I really like Titus.” The big angel said what he meant and meant what he said. “I don’t see Dahariel.”

“Astaad likely left his second in charge at home, as we did Dmitri.”

“Right, I keep forgetting that while Dahariel might have slept with Michaela, his loyalty is to Astaad.” That messed with her mind. “I don’t know if I could ever sleep with a man who wasn’t loyal to me.”

The crashing wind, the salt-laced sea of Raphael’s voice in her mind. That will never be an issue, Consort. Since you will only ever be sleeping with me.

Laughing at that icy response, she turned to lock her gaze with his. “Just don’t forget—that goes both ways. I’ll use the pretty blade you gave me to hack off the head of any woman who touches you.”

His lips curved. “Of course.” Not shifting his eyes from her own, he said, “It seems Gian is intrigued by you.”