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My dog has the audacity to walk over to Roman, carefully placing each pampered paw on the cleanest spot he can find, and sniffs at the man he grew comfortable with after weeks of Roman breaking into my house.

“Zuul, come.”

Roman chuckles as the petulant beast ignores me.

“For someone playing chicken with drowning, you were awful fucking quick to defend yourself. With deadly means.” He scowls, rubbing at his chest. The hole in his shoulder has already closed, and I assume the bullet went all the way through. But it still seems to be paining him.

“You know how to play chicken?” I ask sweetly. Tucking my legs under my body, I place an elbow on the arm of the couch. My hair is starting to dry, and it’s wildly tangled. I toss it behind my back. For some reason I don’t plan on unpacking, I want to look presentable. “Your motorcycle, my Chevelle. Let’s do it.”

“You didn’t ward the penthouse,” he says, crossing his arms over his naked, bloody, tattooed chest. God damn him. His expression is tight, and I have a strange sort of pride when I see the bloom of a bruise that’s already fading on the sharp cut of his jaw. Because despite my betrayal and feelings, Roman had thought to break me and use me. He’d taken me with the intention of using me for answers. He’d brought me into his father’s waiting arms, unaware that it was exactly what I wanted. Roman had underestimated me from the beginning.

“Aerial assault hadn’t crossed Hale’s mind. The elevator is warded. How did you get up here anyway?” My eyes widen. “Did youclimb?” A more exaggerated widening. “Can we turn into bats?”

He blinks at me without a trace of amusement. “There’s a maintenance stairwell leading to the rooftop.”

I nod, feeling silly for not realizing something so obvious. Is this enough for him to understand that I’m no mastermind? That most of my plan hinged upon Sasha and Hale’s meticulous attention? Sure, it had all been my idea, born of a sleepless week and haunted memory, but I’d merely shown up and batted my eyelashes. I’d been using my body to drown out the sorrow, so I figured why not use it for retribution instead.

I frown, angry with myself for how much I care. Even if he’d tried to take his words back in the dungeon, what Roman said in that cemetery is unforgivable. I’d been ready to throw myself at his mercy. My desperation had been visceral. Ready to call it all off—or at the very least, have someone else on my side—and he’d destroyed it.

Destroyedme.

When I’d asked him how he felt, his soft response had been an echo of my internal voice. He’d seen to the core of me, the fractured and broken woman that I was, and known I wasn’t worth it.

For a heartbeat, I look up at the imposing man. With a backdrop of night sky and falling snow, he’s not in Chicago. He’s an ancient one, like Agnarr and Ketill. He’s timeless. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted and I hate it. I hatehim.

“Why didn’t you just kill me when you had the chance?” I ask, voice breaking. “Given my heart to Bjorn and been done with it?”

His brows furrow, and he walks to the farthest corner of the sectional. He brushes the glass from the cushion and sits down. When he leans back, I wince at his blood staining the white fabric. I don’t know why—it’s not my fucking house. Roman’s perfect brow arches in judgment over my reaction. The non-verbal responses that ensue—a rolling of my eyes and a tilt of my neck, his sigh and a shake of his head—come naturally. The month we’d spent together had made our interactions comfortable. It should concern me how easily we slip back into it.

“Same reason I’m not killing you now,” he says, and his temple throbs.

“Remy,” I say.

“Remy.” Solemn, he looks down at his folded hands. I wonder if he resents his brother. Or if he resents himself for how much he cares for him.

“Roman, I can’t let you have?—”

“Why the fuck not, Gwyn?”

“I need leverage,” I say, weakly. “I need your help, and he’s my leverage.”

“You hold my entire coven in your thrall. You don’t need my help,” he says, using a piece of his torn sweatshirt to wipe his face. “Use what you stole, and leave me out of it.”

“You have to be there when I kill Agnarr,” I say. “Trust me.”

At this, he laughs—hard.

“Fuck you,” he says before tilting his head back. His stomach shakes as his booming laughter grows louder. “Trust you? You have to be certifiable.Haveto be.”

“Okay, valid. Poor choice of words. But you…” I pause, not sure how much I should reveal to him about my plan. Sasha wouldn’t tell him a single word of it, and she probably would have killed him already if she were here. She doesn’t think we need Roman, but she’s wrong. “If I tell you what I need you for, do you promise not to ask questions?”

“I don’t promise you a damn thing, cockroach.” He reaches into the pocket of his jeans before pulling out a flask. He drinks from it before throwing it at me—with force. I grunt as I catch it. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

He holds my gaze—brown eyes dark and determined. If this is an olive branch, I suppose it’s best I take it. Unscrewing the cap, I sniff at the contents, and my eyes nearly water. I finish what’s left, and though it isn’t much, I somehow manage to choke on it. Only after a moment of sputtering am I able to tell him what I intend.

“When we kill Agnarr, you have to eat his heart.”

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