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***

Being back in Rowan’s house again is unsettling, but at least this time I’m sober. Whilst the exterior is classic a brownstone, the inside has been updated, only maintaining the dark stained wooden floors from decades past. I try not to look too mesmerised by the kitchen alone, but it’s better to stare atthe alabaster marble than at Rowan who is leaning against a counter, his arms crossed, an ankle resting over the other.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

Unwillingly, my eyes land on his and I try not to get lost. Again, I’m sober but I feel worse off than I did a couple of nights ago. At least confidence was leaking out of my pores thanks to the beers and shots from Sam. Now, I’m a mess.

On the other hand, Rowan is completely unaffected, the lazy smile on his lips and a few strands of his hair falling into his sparkling eyes.

“No,” I say after a moment. “I had dinner. Thanks.”

He nods, grabbing two crystal glasses and pouring whisky in each. He slides one to me and I stare at it for a moment.

“How did you get the case dropped?” I ask finally.

“My family and the Arnolds have a long history. I just reminded Richard of that.”

I swallow. “You didn’t threaten to kill him or anything, did you?”

Rowan laughs outright, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Would it make you feel better if I said I didn’t?”

I think about it for a second. I know who Rowan is. I know he has blood on his hands. Although he doesn’t kill for fun, I don’t doubt that there are innocents somewhere on his list of kills. I’ve always known the truth and I’ve always been okay with it. That probably calls my character into question, but Senna doesn’t reward naivety.

“I don’t care how you did it,” I say honestly. “As long as Halle is okay.”

He regards me for a long moment, taking a long sip from his glass. In the golden light of the kitchen, I swear I can see his eyelashes from here. Rowan Vasilyev is the perfect picture of a disinterested prince.

“Do your friends at OCU know all the laws you’re breaking by being here with me?” he asks, taking a sip of his whisky, his eyes not leaving mine.

I bring the glass to my lips, mirroring him. The burn down my throat matches the burn of my skin. Every inch of me feels too sensitive. “No,” I say quietly, “Should they?”

He smiles. “You tell me.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I decide to change the subject—why I’m here in his house close to midnight.

“I was doing some digging today and turns out Haze was initially created as a supplement to improve your mood. It wasn’t approved by The Judiciary due to reported side effects. But about a month ago, the woman who created it, Professor Hawthorne, died in a car crash—brake failure. I think whoever’s behind this killed her and took over the operation.”

Rowan’s smile fades. “Which brings us back to The Snake.”

“Yeah,” I say. “When do I meet the contact?”

“Hayden set it up for Friday night.”

I nod slowly, trying to think of something else to say. The air between us grows charged, words hanging unsaid. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting, daring me to make the next move.

“Is that why you came?” he asks, breaking first.

It’s not. We both know that.

“It is,” I still lie.

He lifts an eyebrow, walking towards me, and I can’t help it, I take a step back, which only makes his smile wider. “That’s not true,” he says.

“It is,” I lie again.

Rowan is still smiling, eyes glinting with unmistakable confidence he possesses. “No, the truth is that you want me, Alex. Dare I say you’ve wanted me for a while.” He nods at my chest. “If that tattoo is anything to go by.”

My face flushes. I hate that he’s right. I hate that heknowshe is.