Page 11

The penthouse’s balcony is on the northwest corner, and it’s not a very far leap down from the building’s rooftop. My feet slide in the light dusting of snow when I land, but I maintain my balance. The hot tub has been used recently, the cover closed but no longer secured, and I grit my teeth. The idea of Gwyn and her sister and their fucking friend soaking and drinking and celebrating what she’s done makes my eye twitch.

Slowly, I move toward the large bank of windows facing the living room. Zuul lays sprawled on my father’s couch, dead to the world. Gwyn’s dog has shed all over the white fabric, and I’m surprisingly amused. Sure, Gwyn has taken over what doesn’t belong to her, but I like that dog. Enormous, the German shepherd pushes a hundred pounds, and he takes up a large portion of the couch. Zuul is the worst guard-dog to ever exist, and the fact he continues to snooze, tongue out, while I stand on the other side of the glass only proves my point.

I don’t see Gwyn anywhere, so I keep walking. The floor-to-ceiling windows are tinted enough that the sun didn’t bother Bjorn, but I can still see through them. Gwyn is nowhere to be found. The bed is messy, so I know she’s slept in it, but there’s no evidence of her presence. She didn’t leave with Sasha and Hale, but I tap out a text to Margot to make sure.

I keep walking, wanting to look down at the street below once more, but I stop when I realize I’ve found her.

The penthouse boasts a soaking tub with a view of the skyline, and the foggy glass tells me she’s currently using it. Moving closer, I have no shame as I try to get a glimpse of her.

I might want to kill her, but I’m still a man. And Gwyn is still perfect.

For a second, I frown, confused. The bathtub is full of bubbles, nearly to the brim, but there is no Gwyn in sight. But then I notice a long strand of black hair, sticking to the porcelain.

She’s holding herself beneath the water. Her toes stick up at the end of the tub, and she’s using them as leverage to keep her beneath. Perhaps she’ll drown herself, and I won’t have to deal with her anymore.

I watch, waiting for her to surface. Scaring the fuck out of her might bring me some small amount of joy. Although it might not help my case when it comes to finding answers or getting out of this fucking compound. Still, though, I can’t resist.

But she never surfaces. I hold my own breath, realizing I have no idea how long I can hold my breath as a vampire. It certainly isn’t indefinite, but longer than a human, I’m sure. When I finally stop, inhaling deep, and she still hasn’t pulled herself out of the water, I begin to worry.

If she dies, Sasha might not give me Remy. If she dies, my coven disbands and scatters. If she dies, I won’t have my revenge.

“Gwyn!” I shout, slamming my fist on the window. Nothing happens, so I turn toward the sliding glass door leading into the bedroom, finding it locked. Hurrying toward the living room door, I intend to pull it from its hinges. I have no idea if Hale warded the perimeter of the penthouse or just the elevator entrance, but I have to try.

Just as I start tugging on the handle, I hear a loud thud and turn.

The sliding door is open, and Gwyn stands there in a towel far too small for her body. She’s holding a gun, and my reaction is too slow. A searing pain goes through my shoulder and I fall backwards, slamming through the glass door behind me.

5

GWYN

“Oh my god oh my god,”I stammer, throwing my gun onto the bed. Quickly, I grab the robe sitting beside it and pull it over my body. When I’d opened my eyes beneath the water, I’d seen a figure standing at the window.

But the man sprawled on the gleaming marble floor was not who I expected.

Roman is lying in the living room, shards of shattered glass surrounding him, and the strong scent of his blood is unmistakable. I shot him with a silver bullet, but it wasn’t meant for him. With threats coming at me from so many different directions, I’d been prepared to defend myself. Sasha and Hale had only agreed to leave me alone, going to sightsee and search for Emile, because I had the gun. I’d meant to use it on one of Ketill’s messengers or Emile if he showed up. Or maybe even…

But not Roman.

“Are you okay?” I yell as I run down the hallway to the living room. If I’ve killed him, my plan is fucked. I won’t have his help with Agnarr. I won’t have someone to turn the coven over to once I’m done with it. And he’ll have died without seeing his brother.

Because of Remy’s participation in the attack on my parents, I shouldn’t give a damn about him, but after learning the reason for his role on that disastrous night, I’m torn. Even Sasha feels conflicted about Remy. Between our indecision and my falling for his brother—there is a tender part of me that can’t help it.

Zuul runs out of the living room, knocking a counter-height stool to the ground as he sprints past me. I leap over the downed chair with an abundance of grace considering my unguarded panic.

Roman doesn’t move, and his eyes are closed. I stop just a few feet away, waiting for him to breathe. Blood soaks the fabric of his sweatshirt near his shoulder—and I determine the clothing is at fault for this case of mistaken identity. He owns approximately one hoodie, so I didn’t realize it was him. Because of the blood and the twisted fabric, I can’t tell where the bullet struck.

If I hit his heart with a silver bullet…

Blood is pooling beneath him, and I wonder if maybe I can pull the bullet out. I’d done it before, plucking silver buckshot from his chest. Once it’s out of his body, he can heal. Even if it hit his heart, as long as I get it out, he’ll be alright.

Right?

Without hesitating any longer, I sprint into the kitchen and grab an impossibly sharp knife. Ignoring the shards of broken glass burrowing into my flesh as I run, I kneel beside him and grab his sweatshirt.

“Roman? Are you okay?” I ask, using the knife to saw through the thick fabric. “I guess that makes zero hoodies,” I murmur, deliriously. When I can finally open the cut pieces of his shirt, I’m relieved to see the wound has missed his heart. It’s gone into his left shoulder, but the rush of blood hasn’t slowed. He’s so still, and his breathing sounds so shallow, I worry that perhaps the bullet is embedded in an artery.

Breathing deep, I lean over him to examine further, and I feel bad as my wet hair drips onto his face. But before I get a chance to investigate his wound, I’m seeing stars.