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“Yes, yes, we know. Poor Roman. His girlfriend is a bitch,” Nico says, and I punch him in the jaw. He drops the broken glass, and only stares at me with an impassive expression. I’m bigger than him—and stronger—but he doesn’t cower. It pisses me the fuck off.

“You think this is funny, asshole?”

“Funny isn’t the right word. Interesting, perhaps? You know I hated those sniveling cunts, always volunteering to kiss Bjorn’s feet. Not much of a loss, in my opinion. You’re only upset that the girl you love outsmarted you.”

“Loved,” I growl, shoving Nico against the wall.

“He’s right,” Margot says. She’s shutting down her computer and grabbing her laptop. “The way you feel for Gwyn doesn’t just?—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll leave Nico’s head here as a little treat for you to find in the morning.”

“I’m going to my room,” she says, turning off the overhead light as she leaves. “You really ought to get some sleep. I know you haven’t been able to.”

“Yeah, no shit,” I say, but I don’t comment on it any further. Of course I haven’t been sleeping. Every fucking night, I stay up, drinking to numb the ache and forget Gwyn’s fucking face. But instead, I find myself bombarded with images of the last few weeks, and all I can do is analyze each and every moment with her. Separating the truth from the lies, the evidence from the omissions, and what I thought we had from the harsh reality ofwhat things are, is a maddening task, and yet my mind forces the issue every time I close my eyes.

I let go of Nico, stumbling as I step back. Rubbing a hand over my face, I sigh. “I’m fucking powerless here. I’ve only traded a leash for a muzzle.”

“Margot’s right. That kind of love doesn’t just go?—”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“No,youshut the fuck up,” he says, pulling himself up to his full height. Nico isn’t short, but I still have a solid few inches on him. He isn’t weak though, even if he does remind me of a bird fluffing its feathers as he puffs out his chest. “It goes both ways. We all saw it.”

“She’s a fucking liar.”

“Sure, but she’s a liar who’s in love with you.Use it,” he says. Nico straightens his t-shirt—white and skin-tight. Vain motherfucker.

“She had a thousand chances to tell me Remy was alive, and she chose not to. I don’t know what the fuck you think I’m capable of.”

“Gwyn has everything. Vengeance, control of our coven, Bjorn’s fucking bloodsworns. She has everything she could ever want—exceptyou.”

I swear and begin to pace. “I don’t fucking want her. Not unless it’s to rip out her heart.”

“You’re telling me you can’t lie too?”

“No,” I murmur. “No, I’m not saying that.”

Because despite everything, Idostill want her. I want to hear her beg. I want to hear her cry. I want to feel that lush body one last time. I want to fuck her senseless as I watch the light leave her eyes.

Maybe Nico is right.

“We need to come up with a plan.”

When I open the rooftop access door, a gust of winter air slams into my lungs, and I nearly stumble backward. Taking a swig of whiskey from my flask to warm myself, I rub my chest. Emile’s grasp is still tight behind my sternum, and I consider jumping from the rooftop to escape Gwyn’s clutches. Quickly, I dismiss the idea. It wouldn’t kill me, but it would hurt like a motherfucker. Someone would see it, and there would be some sort of investigation, and I just don’t feel like compelling people tonight.

Although, perhaps I would never come back. Maybe Emile would choose to abandon our coven and force me to join with Ketill out west. Fuck. The idea of being forced to move to fucking California has me reaching for a cigarette. I swear when I realize I left my lighter in Margot’s apartment. Ketill’s desire to live in a state known for its sunny nature doesn’t make any sense to me. Although, I suppose if he’s Slumbering, it doesn’t matter.

It makes me think of Agnarr. What is he doing? Where is he? If he’s on the move, does he hide during the day? With his age, the touch of the sun on his skin would be blistering. Perhaps he’s nearby, waiting. Or maybe he’s gone to find evidence of Gwyn’s mother’s death. The whiskey burns as I throw it back, but not as bad as the ache in my chest from Emile’s grip. Walking to the edge of the roof, I look down at the street below. There’s a taxi pulled over across the street, hazards flashing as someone unloads luggage onto the curb in front of a hotel. The roads are wet, shining in the streetlight’s gleam as the snow attempts to stick and fails.

I have a lot of fucking questions about how everything came to this, and only Gwyn can answer them. And even then, she might not know. Or more likely—she might not tell me. Did Cynthia rape Agnarr? Did she use some sort of sperm retrieval magic?

“What the fuck?” I murmur to myself over my train of thought. The insanity almost makes me laugh.

A millennia old vampire, Slumbering far beneath the compound, somehow managed to procreate with a hunter and make Gwyn.

Gwyn, the object of all my desires and inspiration for each of my nightmares, is a goddamn fluke of nature.

Wandering around the edge of the rooftop, I plan to get my answers. My chest tightens, the heat of Emile’s grasp squeezing between my ribs and pulling, and I decide something has to give. If Gwyn doesn’t let me go, I’m going to have to reconsider the option of jumping to the ground and hoping for the best.