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Proving my point further, his voice cracks as he covers his face with both hands. “I thought this was it. That I’d figured it out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, hardly daring to breathe. My hand stills, fingertips barely grazing the metal pellet lodged in his side. I’m second-guessing everything, and I don’t trust myself. “I’m sorry about what I said—”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “You make this so fucking difficult.”

Roman’s hands don’t move, and he stops speaking. My impulse is to get the words out, anyway.

“I’m serious, Roman. You’re a good brother. We’ll figure it out, and you’ll be able to say you did everything you could.” Thinning my lips, I leave my next words unsaid.And then you’ll kill me.I hesitate, breath shaking in the silence. “I shouldn’t have said those things when I—”

“I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just because I wanna get between those thick thighs doesn’t mean I care. You think you can win me over and make me give a shit about you?”

He’s rubbing his hands over his face, and I want to shake him. Every time I think I’ve made some sort of progress with him, he proves me wrong immediately. I jerk my hand, pulling the pellet out, and Roman grunts as he rolls away.

“No. I think the kind of person who would go as far as you have to find their brother’s murderer is capable of kindness and compassion. You think just because I’m nice to you, there’s some ulterior motive to it.” He’s not wrong about that, but a large part of it has become genuine because of what he’s going through. A disconcertingly large part. “You have to have a heart, considering how much you care for Remy.”

“And that’s the fucking problem, isn’t it?” He struggles to sit up, blood oozing from the largest wound. “I care for him too much now and not enough then.” He shakes his head, long strands of dark hair falling down on either side of his face. He wobbles, blood actually gushing down his stomach, and he looks so pale.

“It’s not your fault,” I whisper, resting my hand on his shoulder. He leans into the touch as his eyes close, and I’m afraid to move. When I step forward, I lift my hand, gently cupping his cheek. I don’t know what I’m doing. The line I’ve created in my mind has shifted. If making him care about me forces me to care about him too, where will that get me? He takes a shaky breath, refusing to look up at me, and makes a humming sound before he shakes my hand off him.

“You wanna make me feel better, Gwyn?” There are dark circles under his eyes as he finally opens them, and his raised brow should have been enough to warn me of the filth he says next. “Instead of saying words that don’t matter, those pretty lips can find better use around my cock.”

It sets me off, and a growl creeps up my throat. “If you want that so bad, force me to do it then. Influence me,” I say, calling his bluff. It’s a confidence I haven’t allowed him to see, and it takes him by surprise. He blinks at me for a second, frozen in place, and I shove him. He grunts as he falls backward, blood still leaking out of his wound, slower than before. “You need me to get the last one out, don’t you?”

After what he just said, I shouldn’t help him. I should make him find someone else to piece him back together. But after everything, it’s probably the least reckless thing I’ve done.

“Went through,” he says, and the fact he won’t make eye contact with me tells me I have gotten to him. “Thanks for helping me,” he grunts.

“I’ll blame that gratitude on the blood loss.” He snorts and then groans in pain. He doesn’t know who or what he wants to be to me, and the best I can expect from him at this point is confusion. My only option is to keep working on him. It’s genuinely for self-preservation, but a delusional voice in my head wants him to see the goodness he’s capable of. And that is the most worrisome thing of all. It’s a special kind of hell for wants and needs to align, because then the lines blur and you don’t know how genuine either feeling is. I need him to want me, to care for me, and to eventually take pity on me.

But I can’t pretend his filthy words did nothing to me. Despite everything, IwantRoman to look at me like that. There’s no denying the attraction that exists, especially after what happened between us in the shower. I’m the worst kind of toxic and stupid to want to fuck the man who kidnapped me.

I’ve lost my mind when I step away, going into the bathroom for a washcloth. It’s my last fresh one, the rest in a pile waiting to be washed in the sink. Dampening it, I breathe out slowly. This is a kindness I’m doing to solidify any fond feeling he might have for me, nothing more. I repeat those words to myself as I wring out the washcloth, hopeful that I might believe it, eventually.

I’m looking at myself in the mirror when I realize he could have forced me to help him, and he chose not to. All color drains from my face, and I rush out of the room. He’s on his side, so he doesn’t see my expression, and for that I’m grateful.

“I’ll be gentle,” I offer as the warm, damp cloth touches his skin. I watch as his flesh peaks, his body hair standing on end. Leaning over him, I clean his skin of blood the best I can, moving gently near the hole in his back. When I’m finished, he lays there, breaths slow and deep, and I think maybe he’s too hurt to realize I’m done. “Do you…need to feed to heal properly?” My voice shakes, and I kick myself the moment I say it.

Roman adjusts, looking over his shoulder at me, and I brush his hair away from his face so I can see him better. If I could cut off my traitorous hand, I would.

“No, sweetheart.” The nickname doesn’t have its usual bite, exhaustion etching his handsome face. It’s not fair he’s so beautiful, just like every person I’ve seen here, and I wonder if that’s a prerequisite to being a vampire. “I don’t need to feed at all, technically speaking,” he says.

“Huh?” He rolls over, muscles relaxing as he settles onto his back.

“I suppose you wouldn’t know, would you? The trade-off for our immortal life is an unquenchable thirst—that’s it. We don’t actually need blood to survive.”

Stilling, I stare at him as my washcloth hovers over his skin. There’s still blood on his stomach I need to clean. I’m staring at the French verse on his side, the ruined words more legible now, but I have no idea what they mean. “So it’s almost like a curse?”

“Not almost. Itisa curse. To be thirsty constantly, only barely pacified by blood? Unpleasant.” He folds his hands over his stomach before stopping himself, realizing he’d just be in my way. He seems drowsy, and I wonder if he’ll sleep here. It’s probably not even dawn yet. It’s not like I’ll be able to go back to bed, anyway. “But the trade-off is worth it most days.”

“What—what is the point of being a hunter? Your only weakness is that you’re super thirsty. What could I possibly do to stop you?”

“We have other weaknesses, Gwyn, but I’m sure as shit not telling you.” He laughs, and I look away from his smile. “Most hunters had a small amount of training, a few tricks up their sleeve. I shouldn’t tell you this, but with practice, you could resist my compulsions completely.” Raising my brow, I can’t hide my surprise. He’s so confident in his ability to keep me. “And then, of course, your blood tastes so fucking good, it lures us in. Makes us take risks we shouldn’t.”

The bigger hole is all that’s left to heal, and the blood flow has slowed, probably healing from the inside out. Done with his stomach, I don’t hesitate when I reach across him to his shoulder where Margot’s blood still taints his skin. His hair still has blood in it, but I gently tug it out of my way. Roman’s dark brown eyes follow me lazily, as if it’s taking all his effort to focus. I clean his shoulder, the blood almost looking purposeful as it splashed over the foliage etched into his skin.