Page 13

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 been furious, 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 the crevices 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 he loved me.

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 easily kill 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.”

His free hand grips my waist, and I’m not sure whose fault it is when my hips shift forward.

When I feel the outline of his cock—not fully hard, but definitely paying attention—I swallow my groan.

My breath comes out in quick bursts, and it’s clear he finds it encouraging.

He sighs as he savors my blood, and I feel him twitch through his pants.

I zero in on the blood drying on his skin, desperate for something to focus on that isn’t his dick, and I lick my lips.

The sound causes Roman to break away, head tilted back to see me, and his deep brown eyes are dazed beneath heavy lids.

A wrinkle creases his brow as he catches his breath.

He tongues a drop of my blood from a sharpened incisor, and I make up my mind.

Grasping his wrist in mine, I yank his arm toward my mouth.

Heedlessly, I bite the edge of a tattooed bloom—and drink.

It’s a hit to my system as sparks fly behind my eyes.

There’s a faint alcoholic tinge to it, and I wonder how much he’s drunk tonight.

“Stabbing you in the back and slicing you open while my cock slides into your ass,” he says. Guttural. Pained. “That one might be my favorite.”

Despite the threat in his words, my pussy clenches.

I have to stop myself from thinking about what it would feel like to take him that way.

I’m the definition of ‘fucked up,’ but I don’t care.

This is helping him, and so what if I’m wet enough that I’m going to leave evidence of my arousal on his jeans?

He uses both hands to reach down and squeeze my ass.

He kneads my flesh and spreads me, making me think of what he might do if given the chance.

“You wish I’d ever let you fuck my ass,” I say, as if my imagination hadn’t ran wild since the moment he said it. He growls as he adjusts me.

“You think I didn’t see your toys, sweetheart? You’ve got quite an assortment.”

Before I can think of some witty retort about using a plug for his mouth, his thick fingertips are brushing my robe open.

When Roman’s fangs bite beneath my collarbone, I cry out, back arching.

One of his hands grips my hip while the other tweaks my nipple, drawing a whimper from me.

When he doesn’t relent, I consider pulling him free by his hair, but instead I drag his hand to my lips, biting the same place I did when we’d fought.

Gentle, this time, I draw his blood into my mouth.

I don’t move for several seconds as we drink from one another—and then I can’t stay still any longer.

His dick is firm beneath me as I roll my hips, and his hand encourages each rocking motion with a firm grip on my upper thigh.

The friction is mind-numbing, and I can’t stop myself.

Won’t stop . Because for now, things make sense.

This makes sense. I’d been stuck between this idea of black and white, good and evil, and had never imagined there could be something in the middle.

When Roman had given me his blood and made me Ascend, I’d realized nothing was as clear as I thought.

Because of my feelings for him, I’d considered calling everything off.

I’d considered allowing myself to die and not go through with the Ascension so I wouldn’t have to betray him. But, somehow, leaving him seemed worse.

Now, I’m sure Roman wishes he’d let me die.

His fingers dig into my skin, and he lifts his mouth from my chest. He removes his arm from my clutch with precise motions. Shoving the robe from my shoulders, his gaze caresses my body, all while his eyes go dark.