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“Roman, let me help you.” She tugs at the arm of her robe.

“I dream of killing you,” I say. “A different way each time I fall asleep.”

Gwyn stills, looking down at the hand rolling up her sleeve. I watch her for any shift in posture, but I find none. It’s infuriating.

I want her scared. I want her shaken.

I want her destroyed.

“Well?” she asks, amber eyes piercing from behind her lowered lashes. “Which is your favorite?” she asks, a wicked smile curling the edge of her mouth. Slowly, she lifts her wrist to her lips.

I’m on her before a single drop of blood is wasted.

7

GWYN

Roman moves so quickly,I’m not sure if it’s his teeth or mine that pierce my skin first. A gasp and a sigh tangle in my throat, and the sound crawls out of me, desperate and wretched. Roman pulls my blood into his mouth as I push my feelings out of my mind. There is no explaining myself. I made him think his brother was dead. I let him suffer with that knowledge for weeks, and there were so many times I could’ve put an end to his misery. When Roman had held me in his arms, and I’d explained Remy’s suicidal ideation, I’d wanted to tell him the truth. But there was no world in which I could have. Everything I’d done, everything Sasha and Hale had helped with, every sacrifice made, every life lost—it all led up to me killing Bjorn and taking his coven.

Roman went from target to collateral damage. It seems my heart will suffer the same fate.

Despite everything at stake, despite everything we’d worked for and the vengeance I needed, I almost told Roman anyway. I still wonder what might have happened if the conversation in the cemetery had gone differently. Would it have mattered? His uncle still would have come. And Roman would have beenfurious, regardless of when I told him the truth. What if I told him and he ripped my heart out of my chest?

I can’t exist in a state of what-if; I should know that by now.

Roman breathes deeply as he drinks. With one hand firmly gripping my wrist, he places the other at the small of my back. Though the hole from my bullet has healed, his skin is tacky. My arm sticks as he holds it against his naked chest. I’m tempted to lean forward and drag my tongue over the inked vine twining at his collarbone—to taste his blood and to clean up my mess. The vampire thirst demands it of me, ordering my lips to dip low and make contact.

I allow myself just a hint of him, mouth pressed to his flesh, before I stop myself. Despite having little urge to drink from Sasha or Hale, I am ravenous as Roman draws my essence past his lips. I want to taste his blood and roll it around on my tongue like a fine wine, but I can’t. There is no utility in it. I’m only here to help him resist Emile.

Holding me close, he drinks from my wrist as if he’s been dying for the taste. As if no time and no betrayal has passed between us. He drinks as if the last time he did it, when he’d pressed sharp teeth to my neck, he hadn’t sworn a vow to someone who would betray him. By drinking my blood at Last Drop, he’d made himself my equal, and it had made my vengeance so much easier.

I should’ve expected it to make everything else worse.

In the days since I killed Bjorn, there have been brief respites—usually after waking or when I’m close to sleep—where I forget the bad parts. I think of Roman’s rough touch and low voice. I hear his laugh and long for his attention. But then the harsh truth sets in, usually in the form of Zuul’s nails on the marble floor or Sasha’s muffled voice bouncing off the high ceiling in the kitchen. That’s when his hatred blooms across the back of my eyelids in bared teeth and cursed words. It twists into thecrevices of my mind, the whispers of my own loathing echoing in his trembling rage.

I don’t regret seeking vengeance for my parents, but I do regret hurting Roman.

Despite his intentions in the beginning, he’d softened to me in the shared intimacy of my father’s memories. Cherry-picked pictures of a past I never knew allowed me to give him some insight into who I was. Even if most of it was a lie.

His eyes are closed, with long lashes sweeping over his dark circles. I watch the lines between his brows soften as he relaxes, and I hope it’s because my blood is helping. I don’t need his suffering on my conscience. While everything else I’d done had been intentional, this is a consequence I hadn’t meant for him. How could I have known he would offer his vow to Emile? Despite the cruel words Roman had spoken to me in the cemetery, he’d made a decision a few moments later that had a lingering impact. He swore an oath to someone who would abuse it just to have a moment with me.

A moment to tell me helovedme.

I know the freedom he gave up for a chance to help me escape. The least I can do is give it back to him, even if he dreams of ending me.

“A bite for every person you killed,” he says, gasping for air and it takes me a moment to realize what he’s saying. His lips drag over my skin as he tells me his favorite ways to murder me. “And then I slit your throat.”

“I’m not sure I have the real estate for that many bites,” I say, voice husky. I’m on the verge of tears, and I don’t know why.

“You have enough,” he says, drawing deep as his hand slips down beneath my robe to squeeze my naked ass.

This was a mistake.

I remove his hand and push him backward. Though Roman follows my lead, allowing me to move him, he could just as easilykill me. Even though I have Remy, will that be enough to hold his fantasies at bay? How can I be sure he won’t lose control? When the backs of his knees hit the chair, his response is smooth and unhurried. When he lowers himself, he doesn’t let go, dragging me close so he can continue to drink. I climb onto his lap and he maintains our proximity. Every moment we’d touched had been like this—easy and fluid. I’m surprised this is the only thing that hasn’t changed.

The chair is wide and comfortable, and my knees sink in on either side of him. The cool metal of his zipper hits my bared flesh just as a breeze blows through the shattered door, and I gasp.

“Sometimes I push you off the roof,” he says, and the coarse brush of his beard tickles my arm as he speaks. “Sometimes I watch you bleed out on the pavement.”