Page 15

ROMAN

I’m packing this away to never think about again.

My phone’s vibrating, and I have to stand to fish it out of my pocket. My jeans are hanging low, far beneath my hips, and I grunt as I pull them up over cum-soaked underwear. I catch her scent on my clothing, and I’m immediately hard again.

Motherfucker.

This is just as much her fault as it is mine.

Gwyn suggested that I drink her blood, and she knows what it’s like between us when that happens.

I can’t blame the Ascension anymore; at this point, it’s bordering on obsession.

For a moment, I can’t remember why I even started drinking from her in the first place.

But without being aware of it, my hand has drifted up to my chest, and I rub at my sternum.

There’s an absence of pain I haven’t felt in days.

Gwyn’s idea worked.

It gnaws and soothes at the same time. I should be thrilled, considering I never wanted to be sworn to Emile in the first place.

But I can’t find any enthusiasm. His demand isn’t turning my organs inside out anymore, yet I’m beholden to her fucking blood to keep it that way.

But now at least I have a logical reason behind why I was able to defy my uncle’s order a few days ago and escape the dungeon.

It wasn’t determination or love or whatever other stupid shit Margot was whispering to Nico the other night.

It was Gwyn’s hunter blood doing what it was meant to do. That’s all.

Thinking about what I’d done for her is just what I need to be able to deflate my mutinous dick so I can zip my fucking pants. My phone vibrates again, and I expect it’s a message I’ve been biding my time for.

Margot

The cardinal is in hand.

I repeat, the cardinal is in hand.

I roll my eyes.

Roman

Cardinal because of her red hair?

Margot

I don’t know what you’re talking about. Birds don’t have hair.

I choose to ignore her. There’s no reason to speak in code.

Roman

Did she put up much of a fight?

“What do you mean you lost her?” Gwyn’s voice is shrill as she shouts into her phone. I can’t contain my grin as I saunter down the hallway. I might have underestimated Gwyn and gotten myself into this predicament, but she’s no stranger to failure either.

Margot

No. She thought Nico was pretty. You know how he is.

Roman

Did she try to use magic?

Margot

She was wearing a protection amulet, but that obviously didn’t matter.

I sigh. Nico is going to be fucking insufferable. Protection amulets only work if you don’t want the attention, and evidently she didn’t mind his.

I’m leaning against the doorframe of my father’s room when Gwyn throws a lamp at the wall beside me. She’s naked except for a thong and her rage, and fucking Christ, I need help.

A video comes through my phone a moment later.

The clip starts with Nico’s face at an unflattering angle, and he murmurs about technology before flipping the camera around.

First I see his foot, then a tire, then the trunk of Gwyn’s 1970 Chevelle SS.

It’s a thing of beauty. Painstakingly rebuilt from the ground up by the man who raised her, it’s everything a classic muscle car should be.

It’s been wasting away in the parking garage for the last few weeks, and I’d gleefully tossed Nico the keys when he left.

Gwyn hadn’t ordered the coven to keep him in. Only me.

And she hadn’t earned their loyalty either. Not a single person had told her.

I don’t think the Chevelle will be seeing any car shows in the near future as Nico pans up.

His hand appears in front of the camera, reaching into the trunk toward black fabric that turns out to be a pillowcase.

When he pulls it from a woman’s head, a flash of scarlet curls is all I can see until she shakes it out of her face.

He used duct tape on her mouth, and I can make out a magic blocking sigil drawn on it with a marker.

Beneath her, there’s another one spray painted in the fabric of the trunk liner.

It hurts to see it. As Sasha wiggles and writhes and screams through the tape, I give a little pout about the damaged interior.

“What the fuck did you do, Roman?” Gwyn shouts before tossing her phone on the bed as she tugs on a shirt. As the camera pans back up to Nico’s face, I exit out of the message. She doesn’t need to know shit.

“No bra, sweetheart?” I ask, and she throws her phone.

“What’s he doing there? Oh my fucking god, Gwyn.” Hale’s voice is tinny from the bed.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t let her fuck me,” I say. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

“Why is he there?” Hale yells, but Gwyn ignores him as she pulls on the tightest pair of leather pants I’ve ever seen.

High-waisted, it takes her a moment to button them up, and she’s murmuring to herself as she does.

She’s furious, and I’m thrilled. It’s the first time I’ve been able to properly take a breath since I saw my father splayed on the marble ballroom floor, Gwyn standing over him and dripping with his blood. I needed this.

“How did you get through to Emile? All your shit is monitored.” Hale murmurs. “How the fuck did he manage to evade all of my tracking spells? And now he’s taken Sasha. God dammit .”

I go still. He thinks Emile is responsible for this, and I have no idea what the fuck he’s talking about.

I haven’t been able to reach my uncle on his cell phone, and he hasn’t tried to contact me—other than incessantly tugging on my oath to him.

Without being able to leave the compound, I have no idea where the other end of the command has come from.

So, if he thinks Emile has something to do with it, I need to know why.

If I continue to ignore my uncle’s command, it’s going to infuriate him.

I have no idea what he’ll do. And if there’s one person I want to see even less than Gwyn, it’s Emile.

There will certainly be hell to pay whenever he sees me.

What’s worse is that every moment of his rage is justified.

If he commands me to swim to the middle of Lake Michigan and drown myself, I’ll deserve it.

“Why do you think it’s Emile?” I ask, taking note of Gwyn’s chewed up nails as she picks her phone up and takes it off speakerphone.

“Where are you?” Gwyn asks, shoving past me.

“Millenium Park? Are you joking? Do you need me to send someone?” She walks through the kitchen to avoid the broken glass all over the living room.

I go to the other side of the counter, hands in my pockets.

As soon as she hangs up, she’ll begin what she thinks is an interrogation.

But instead, she’ll find herself in the middle of a negotiation—and it’s one I don’t intend to lose.

Hale says something I can’t make out, and I haven’t been listening. I’ve been focused on the sound of Gwyn’s blood rushing as her frustration builds. The faint squeak of the leather as she walks, her thick thighs making the fabric rub, is equally distracting.

“I don’t want to hear it, Hale. You just had to go ‘flick the Bean,’ didn’t you?”

“We weren’t just sightseeing. We were doing research too!” Hale insists, voice discernible now that I’m paying attention. “Emile is definitely close by. The pendulum won’t swing, which means he’s using some sort of?—”

“Okay!” Gwyn shouts, cutting him off as her eyes meet mine. I force my expression to go slack, choosing to reveal as little as possible to her. “Come back to the compound. I’m going to need your help.”

Gwyn hangs up and turns away from me. Twisting her hair up into a clip, she reveals bare, porcelain skin. Her shirt is a long-sleeved crimson, and it sits off the shoulder. I hate that I have the urge to come up behind her and press my lips and teeth to that revealed flesh.

“I can’t give you Remy,” she says, voice low. She doesn’t turn to face me, and I think it’s for the same reason I adjusted my expression a moment ago. Gwyn already knows this is a negotiation, and revealing her cards doesn’t help her.

But I don’t need her to show me anything. Despite so much of what I know about her being a lie, the love she has for her sister is clear. The whole reason she did all of this was to protect her loved ones. That’s irrefutable.

In using Nico to take Sasha, I’ve struck her only fear.

“You can, and you will,” I counter.

“No, Roman. I can’t. I need you to cooperate with me, and the moment I give Remy back?—”

“You need Sasha more than you need me to cooperate.” I cross my arms.

“And you need Remy,” she says, turning around. With an arched brow and narrowed eyes, she spreads her hands out and places them on the counter’s edge. “You won’t lose him twice.”

“Then we’re at an impasse,” I say. “You won’t kill Remy while I have Sasha. I won’t kill your sister while you have my brother.”

“I never planned on killing Remy,” she says, soft and defeated. Gwyn adjusts, placing her elbows on the marble. Burying her face in her hands, she lets a muffled groan tear out of her. “He’s collateral. That’s it.”

I bend down, picking up one of the bar stools Zuul knocked over, and setting it upright. Discreetly, I try to adjust my goddamn pants before I sit down. There is something distinctly fucking humbling about bargaining with the woman who ruined my life while my boxer briefs grow stiff as they dry.

“As long as Remy is collateral, I suppose Sasha will be too.” I steeple my fingers and tilt my head toward the bottle of Brennivín at the wet bar. “The best deals are made with a drink. Pour me another, Gwyn.”

Her honeyed gaze is not sweet, but boiling. Caramelized by her anger. Her chest heaves as she takes a deep breath, and her porcelain skin has the faintest hue of pink. I might not have the upper hand, but I do have her goddamn attention.

“I fucking hate you.”

“Then we’re on even footing, cockroach.”