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I look in her eyes. “Took the edge off.”

A flicker of something like understanding passes through her expression.

“Took years to find you,” I continue. “You know that.”

She swallows. “I know.”

“And it wasn’t until Semyon needed help and I went through Anya’s brother’s computer that I finally did.”

Her lips part slightly. “Because of the Irish.”

“Yeah.” My jaw tightens. “The Irish.”

I thought telling her this would be brutal. And it is. But somehow, saying it out loud makes it a little easier to bear.

I exhale. “Your turn.”

The memory of what I had to do has me fired up.

I need another target—one that ends in victory instead of crushing devastation.

For a moment, she doesn’t speak. Then she lets out a slow breath like she’s bracing for impact. "I think I need a shot. Or drugs."

I smirk. "I can arrange that.”

"That… would actually be really good," she says.

I nod, walk over to my desk, and pull out one of the joints I keep for special occasions. I don’t smoke often, but sometimes, it helps. I like sharing one with her.

I light up, take a slow drag, and bring it over to her.

I pass it to her, watching as she presses it to her lips. She inhales deeply, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly.

Tendrils of smoke curl through the air. The sweet, smoky smell is the only one I can handle.

We pass it back and forth in silence.

The flicker of fire.

The ring of smoke.

The sweet, earthy scent.

The pressure in my chest eases just a little.

I lean back in bed.

"That’ll make me horny," she murmurs.

I smirk. "Is that supposed to be a warning?"

She exhales another slow drag.

"Rafail wasn’t the first person I was promised to," she says suddenly.

I blink.

That is not where I expected this conversation to go. I’m already ready to murder someone, and I don’t even know the story yet.