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“Fuck!” I cry, falling back and holding the side of my head. “Did you just fucking headbutt me?”

“Did you fuckingshootme?” he counters, grabbing me by the neck and slamming me onto my back.

“I thought you—” I gasp, but he squeezes and I can’t breathe. Blood from his shoulder drips onto my chest. He’s straddling my body, using both hands to keep me immobile. He’s beautiful and terrifying as he bares his teeth, eyes wild. His hair is unbound, falling around his face, and I think perhaps this wouldn’t be the worst way to die. I memorize the planes of his face, scrambling at the opportunity I’d missed a few days ago. It’s been hell since that moment in the ballroom, fear and frustration keeping me holed up in the penthouse, and I’m not too proud to admit shame has had a bitter hold on me.

What I’ve done to him is unforgivable, and his violence feels like a caress when the alternative is his disregard. I wish I could go back in time and make different choices, but I don’t think it would have made any difference. There’s never been any possible outcome that didn’t end with Roman’s rage and my death at his hands.

My lungs start to burn because I haven’t drawn a breath in far too long, and the edges of my vision darken.

But then my defense training kicks in and reminds me that I am not fucking done.

I swing my right leg around his as I pull my hands up. It might appear as if I’m surrendering, but I tuck my elbows in close. He kicks off my leg, but I try again, and I’m able to hook it over his. Slamming my hands toward my waist, I cross my arms over his and push as hard as I can. I force his balance to shift,and swipe his leg inward with mine. Roman yelps as he tips over, landing on his injured side.

He groans, and I’m on top of him, instinctively throwing a punch at his handsome face. My robe falls open, but I ignore it. The towel follows after which is no surprise because thin people like Bjorn apparently like tiny towels. My right hand is covered in blood, and I don’t know if it’s his or if I sliced open my palm on the broken glass. It doesn’t matter as I punch him again. His head whips to the side, and before he can recover, my other fist slams into him.

I know I should stop.

At this point, it isn’t self defense. At this point, it is every emotion I’ve felt in the last year—that I’ve felt ever since I can remember—proving they’re still there.

Like a malignant spirit no longer tied to a home but to an inhabitant.

Feeding on fear and hopelessness, my violence is a haze over my bones—until it isn’t. It’s dormant—until it isn’t. And now it wrenches my limbs into submission with erratic motions and unnatural angles. It groans in the ancient tongue of grief as it erodes my psyche. Weak and lost, I’d sought out the redemption of vengeance. And when Bjorn’s blood had baptized me, I’d had hope.

But the exorcism didn’t fucking work, did it?

Zuul lets out a sound that starts as a growl and ends as a bark, and I look up to find him standing nearby. He approaches and falls back, whines and whimpers. He’s afraid.

I’m distracted—and I pay for it.

“That feel good, Gwyn?” Roman asks, and when I look down, I freeze. He’s grinning. A feral thing full of sharp teeth and blood. His lip is split, and he licks it slowly. Before I can answer, Roman has twisted his body. It’s the same thing I did to him,and I can’t stop myself from falling over. I recover quickly, half-crawling away so he can’t slam down atop me once more.

But then he’s grabbing my foot, and I’m clawing at the air as he tugs me backward. My robe flies up, and I think he’s going to pull it over my head so I won’t be able to see, but he doesn’t. Instead, he spins me. My breath leaves my lungs when he lets go, having waited until the perfect moment so I crash into the stool Zuul knocked over. It hurts and it slams the air from my chest as the chair breaks into pieces. I narrowly avoid one of the legs impaling me in the stomach, but it gives me an idea.

Putting my foot on the bottom of the seat, I pull the leg free. It all happens within a blink. The landing, the chair-leg, Roman’s approach. I wield the wood like a baseball bat, and I turn just in time to swing it at his head.

I’d been stupid to think Roman was here for any reason other than to kill me. Does he really think I won’t keep my word? He’s really willing to bet Remy’s life that Sasha won’t kill his brother the minute I die?

He tears the makeshift bat from my hands and tosses it behind him, leaving nothing but splinters embedded beneath my skin.

“I’m just here to talk, but if you want to play, I won’t stop you,” he says, grabbing my hips and spinning me in his grasp. He wraps an arm across my chest, immobilizing me. So I do the only logical thing I can think of.

I bite him. Hard.

Right in that fleshy part between thumb and forefinger, I apply as much pressure with my teeth as I can. I do my best to mask my pleasure at the taste of him. Warm and earthy, I’ve missed it. Even being in his embrace, no matter how dangerous, makes me feel something. He doesn’t smell the same—not quite. Instead of mint, there’s a faint undercurrent of nicotine. He’s started smoking again, and I’m sure I’m the reason. But despitethat, he mostly smells like him. It’s slightly comforting. He hisses in pain, but doesn’t let go immediately. When my body leaves the ground a moment later, all I can do is shriek. I’m only airborne for a second before landing on the marble coffee table. The slab holds up well, but I lose my balance when the legs crumple inward.

I slide onto the floor, towel gone and robe falling off. Attempting to maintain whatever dignity I might have when it comes to Roman, I tie my robe as I scramble toward the couch.

“Enough,” I say. “I’m done.”

“Even cockroaches know when to escape into a crack, I suppose,” he says, but he doesn’t move to attack me. He must actually want to talk about something important.

“What do you want?” I snap, marveling at the destruction surrounding us. The penthouse is a fucking disaster. Glass covers the floor. Snow drifts in with the wind. Scarlet red blood is spattered over everything. “If it’s to see your brother, the answer is no.”

Roman looks tired as he brushes his hair off his face. Paler than usual, his skin contrasts vividly with the dark circles under his eyes. He removes his ripped sweatshirt, and I do everything in my power not to look at him. He doesn’t belong to me anymore. I’m honestly kidding myself if I think he ever did. He gave parts of himself to a woman he thought he knew. That’s all.

“Why do you have a gun?”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?”