Page 17

GWYN

“He’s been waving at me to pull over. What do you want me to do?” Nico asks Roman, and that’s when I realize Emile was never part of their plan. The millennia old vampire has gone rogue, and he’s an immediate threat to my sister. I stare at Roman’s hand as he adjusts the phone in his grip.

They’re beautiful hands, only made more so by the tattoos. A snake opening its maw on one—venomous and lethal. A rose on the other—delicate yet thorned. Large and capable, I think of all the things those hands have done and could do. My own look small and weak in comparison.

But they’re no less deadly. If Emile hurts my sister, these hands will be covered in Sauveterre blood.

“Did he see you grab Sasha?” Roman asks just as my phone starts to vibrate on the counter.

Hale’s grinning face lights up my screen.

The picture is from a few years ago on one of his birthdays.

He’s wearing a plastic, golden crown and a touch of black eyeliner, and goosebumps crawl down my legs and up my back.

Because he shouldn’t be calling me back.

In my fury, I hadn’t noticed how much time had passed.

He should have found a darkened alcove by now.

He should have drawn a chalk door on the wall and opened a portal into the alley outside.

If it weren’t for ancient warding on the compound, he would’ve already been standing in my living room. He’s that proficient with his skills.

So the fact he’s calling me doesn’t bode well.

“Continue to the greystone. Call me back if he escalates,” Roman says, then disconnects the call. “Answer it.”

“Hey,” I say, voice shaking as I answer.

“Miss Parsons,” the voice on the line says, and I suppress a sob. Emile’s accent is thicker than I remember. Sickening syrup and slime oozes down my spine, and I take three panting breaths before I lose the ability altogether. “I believe I’ve found something of yours.”

Roman says nothing. His temple throbs in time with his pulse, and those gorgeous hands curl around the edge of the countertop. I’m sure he’s fucking thrilled. He took Sasha and now Emile has Hale. Roman couldn’t have planned it better himself.

“He must have gotten lost,” I say, slow and measured. “If you’d send him back to?—”

“I believe you have something of mine, do you not?”

For a fraction of a second, a smile lifts my lips.

Because I have enough things Emile thinks belong to him, that I’m not sure what he’s referring to.

Roman’s brow raises, and I avoid his gaze.

“I’ll need you to be more specific,” I say, deciding against taunting the man who holds my best friend’s life in his hands any further.

A low chuckle comes through the phone, and I wince when Hale yelps in the background. “You have my nephew and my coven. We have your best friend and your sister. A fair trade, don’t you think?”

“I can give you Roman, but you know that’s all I can do,” I say, hoping it isn’t a mistake. “When a coup occurs, does the victor often give it up to someone from a failed regime?”

“Petite voleuse,” Emile murmurs like a swear. Despite myself, I seek out the man across the counter from me. Tall, and still shirtless, he’s a lot to take in. I’m surprised to see his lips move, forming the word thief .

“You led no coup, huntress. You stole it,” Emile grits out.

“Stole it, earned it. Potato, tomato.”

Roman’s eyes narrow to slits, and I turn so I don’t have to look at him. I’m not cut out for this negotiating shit. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Agnarr was supposed to be dead, and every vampire of his Making ordered to die along with him.

Including me.

But no. I’d had time to consider how little I wanted Roman to die—how little I wanted Margot and Nico to die—and then Agnarr had peaced the fuck out. And now here we are.

“If you will not give me the coven, I fear this young man is useless to me,” Emile says.

Before I can interject, before I can scream or cry, Roman’s booming voice yanks on my nerve endings and sets them on fire.

“Remy is alive. I’ve talked to him. She’ll kill him if you?—”

“Miss Parsons, send me my nephew. And whatever spell books they might need to lift their curse from him. Quickly, now, before I grow bored.”

“There is no?—”

“You stay right where you are in the penthouse. If I catch a whiff of any vampire under your thrall, I will kill your loved ones. Do you understand?”

“Put this on,” Roman says, tossing me a helmet that he pulled out from beneath the seat of his motorcycle.

“ You put it on,” I say, combative for no reason other than the fact my sister is in danger, and I’m terrified. Nico having Sasha was bad enough, but now Emile has Hale, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to save them both.

Emile is a fucking wild card, and…

I can’t think about it.

“If your brain spills out on the road, it’ll be wildly inconvenient.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I’ll die,” I argue.

“Do you think healing from massive injuries is pleasant?” he asks, before pointedly looking at his shoulder.

“Put the fucking helmet on,” Roman says.

When I don’t move fast enough for him, he takes it from my hands and leans in.

“I still can’t feel his command,” Roman says, speaking quietly.

His beard tickles my neck. “Should I tell him what your blood can do? Should I let him tear you apart for it?”

“If you want Remy to die tonight, by all means. Although I think he might rip you apart instead,” I whisper.

“And why’s that?”

“You reek of me.”

At this, he swears. He shoves the helmet onto my head, and I’m overwhelmed by the sensory assault. His scent invades my nostrils, and I’m enveloped by him.

Roman digs around in his jacket pocket. He’d changed into it when we got into the parking garage, and it’s far tighter than his usual clothing. It clings to his muscles, and I’m sure it isn’t very comfortable. He pulls out yet another flask—this one full.

“Oh my god. I can’t let you drive.”

“Vampire metabolism,” he says, frown etching a line between his brows, as he unscrews the lid. “What other choice is there, sweetheart?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Not kidnapping my fucking sister to begin with,” I snap. “Not letting Emile become a part of it.”

“Ship has sailed on that one, Gwyn.” And within a beat, he’s dumping the flask on his crotch.

“You know, I’d already thrown whatever the fuck that Icelandic shit was into your lap. Did you really think this would make a difference? Your dick is just gonna smell like… is that Jager? Who the fuck keeps a flask of Jager on them?”

“The jacket is Remy’s,” he says by way of explanation, and then he swings a leg over the enormous Suzuki.

I’m more familiar with Harleys thanks to Dad, but I know this bike is fast—made for performance.

Within a second, it purrs to life. Distantly, I wonder how he got it back to Chicago from Virginia.

“I feel like a fucking bobble head doll.”

“Visor down,” he snaps, glaring at me over his shoulder. “Watch out for the exhaust, and don’t make any sudden movements.”

“I’m not stupid,” I say as I clamber onto the back of the motorcycle. It’s high, and though I’m tall, I almost ask him for an assist. Almost. But then I’m settled against him, crotch to ass, and I’m furious about everything all over again. “If either of them die, I swear to god.”

“You’re endangering them by even coming,” Roman says.

“I don’t give a fuck. You think he’s going to be calm when he realizes there is no fucking spell on you?” His posture stiffens a fraction before going slack. “Oh my god, did you think there really was a spell?”

“Hoped, Gwyn. Because that’s the only fucking way that—you know what, never mind. Put your visor down.”

I do as I’m told, wishing I could make sense of the knot in my stomach. He doesn’t believe he could have fallen for me without a spell, and it hurts. Would he still think that if I didn’t betray him?

“Roman, I?—”

“If you’re talking, I can’t hear you,” Roman shouts, and I’m positive he’s a liar. He’s a vampire for fuck’s sake. “Hold on tight.”

I knew it was coming, but wrapping my arms around him might push me over the edge.

Since I’m with him, the vampires at the parking garage entrance don’t stop us from leaving.

He guns it onto the street, and I have to close my eyes because of how my stomach lurches.

Deep breaths in and deep breaths out are the only things that keep me from losing it.

His helmet smells of mint, leather, and a faint hint of sweat, and I wholly reject that it’s his scent I find calming.

Instead of paying attention to the road, I keep my eyes closed, and I hold on for dear life. When I try to peek at where we’re going, I immediately regret it as he lane splits. I stop breathing and squeeze my thighs around him when he decides to run a very red light.

A turning car nearly sideswipes us as they lay on the horn, and I’m afraid he’s going to lose control.

Snow hasn’t stopped falling since Roman landed on the balcony, and it’s made the ground slick.

It’s not the near accident that frightens me, but his speed.

Roman’s only going this fast because he’s worried.

If there was no concern, he wouldn’t jump the curb and drive alongside the pedestrians crossing the street legally.

He wouldn’t narrowly avoid clipping the back of a pickup truck as he swerves around it.

But I don’t dare tell him to slow down.

I die a small death when Roman grips my thigh as he takes a curve far too fast. He thinks I’m going to fall, and that’s the reason for the contact, but I stare down at his hand anyway. The snake tattooed on his hand looks like it’s about to bite my flesh, and I stare at each sharp fang.

I squeeze my eyes shut.