Page 3

ROMAN

“ Start ripping their hearts out and put them in a pile ,” she commands, and the coven fall upon the dead bodies like scavengers. Without hearts, there will be no healing of what she’s done.

I don’t allow myself to scan the faces of those who survived Gwyn’s attack.

The reason I can’t look at them is two-fold.

The coven I’ve been trained to lead as my own had needed me, and I hadn’t been there.

But worse, I’d been stuck in a dungeon, punished for falling for the very woman who destroyed them.

This was my fault—for bringing her here, for letting her infiltrate them. For letting her infiltrate me .

If I don’t look at them, perhaps I won’t see the impact of what I’ve done. At the very least, I won’t be able to see exactly which faces are missing from the crowd.

Less than an hour—that’s how long it took for everything to change.

Less than an hour ago, I was screaming her name, telling her I loved her as Bjorn dragged her away.

An hour ago I was fighting against his command, against Emile’s command, doing everything in my power to get to her.

Though my knuckles have already healed, my time spent slamming my fists through stone feels fresh.

My fear and determination when running past the recently awakened first vampire, my disregard for the dead body of my ex-girlfriend, had propelled me forward—to her . To Gwyn. To the woman I loved.

Less than an hour ago my father was alive, and the coven was his.

Less than an hour ago my brother was still dead.

Gwyn had lifted the mourning veil I’d created in my mind for Remy—but I can’t be thankful for it. Not when she’s used me to destroy everything. Not when the bodies of half my coven lie in a pile. Not when their blood is still spreading across the white marble floor.

But my brother is alive. My relief and rage mix together into something potent. Viscous and thick, wading through it is a struggle.

“If I stand, will they be instructed to rip my head off?” I ask.

“ Only intervene if he seems like he’s about to kill me ,” Gwyn orders the coven—flippantly, as if it’s no bother for her to do it. Had she been pretending it was difficult at Last Drop or has she improved that much in just a few days? Between her parentage and deceit, either is possible.

I stand, brushing dust and dirt from my pants while the reek of Agnarr’s chambers invades my nostrils.

My shirt has come untucked on one side and I don’t bother to fix it.

Some of my father’s blood has stained my clothing from when I’d attacked Gwyn a few moments ago.

It smells of him, and I’m having a hard time wrapping my head around this shit.

My father’s body still lies in the middle of his opulent ballroom.

The puddle of blood surrounding him has finally stopped spreading just a few steps from the closest table.

Set up for a feast, the splendorous ballroom is incongruent with the gore around us.

Low-hanging crystal chandeliers twinkle over headless bodies.

Tables lie flipped on their sides, the dinnerware shattered and scattered.

I assume it’s from the fight my coven put up as Gwyn ordered them to kill their own.

“I fear you’ll have to be more specific with your commands.

From this point forward, consider me poised to kill you at any given opportunity,” I say, and my hands twitch with the desire to wrap them around her throat.

It’s the only thing that makes sense right now.

Remy being alive and half my coven being dead is insanity I can’t quite understand.

But the urge to kill her? To make her fucking pay? Simple.

Gwyn walks to the table my father placed for the ceremony he’d dragged her off to—promising to eat her heart in front of the coven. It shouldn’t amuse me that his expectations were upended so spectacularly, especially since mine had met the same fate. But at least I’m not dead.

My heart resides firmly in my chest—thumping hard, raw and bloody, it remains.

Gwyn pours herself a glass of wine from the chilling bucket on the table. Her dress is covered in his blood. It’s all over her chest and neck and mouth, and I’m repulsed—both by the sight and by my reaction.

I like seeing her covered in blood, and fuck if my body hasn’t caught up to my mind.

“Too dry,” she complains, her nose wrinkling as she tosses the contents of her glass onto the floor and reaches for the pitcher of water instead.

Knowing my father’s taste, the Malbec she’s glowering at is easily one of the most expensive wines in the world, likely bought on auction for six figures.

“You can be poised to kill me all you want, but we both know you won’t do it. ”

“For now,” I say, because she’s right. I wouldn’t be capable of doing it any other way than fast and sloppy at this moment.

But that’s not what I need. Slow and painful, I want her to suffer.

I want her to pay for every lie she told, every truth she omitted, every person she killed.

Her eyes meet mine, and I’m sure she sees the exact breadth of my hatred.

When there’s a loud slam outside the ballroom, I offer, “Perhaps your father will do it for me.”

“ Ready yourselves! ” she calls, ordering the coven— my coven .

“So, little siren, how do you plan to kill one of the strongest—and oldest—vampires to ever exist?” comes Nico’s soft drawl.

My friend finally decides to approach the dais from where he’d been seated, puffing on a cigarette.

Immune to Gwyn’s coercion due to her blood oath, his gait is casual as he shoves his hands into his pockets.

He glances at me, and I attempt to communicate without words.

We can take her down before they even get to us.

The shake of Nico’s head is subtle as he approaches, gaze locked on Gwyn. Margot strains her neck, standing near my father’s body, trying to listen to our conversation. But she can’t move, stuck in Gwyn’s thrall.

“Killing Agnarr ends us all. Using Remy as collateral does nothing if Roman won’t live to see his brother.”

For just a second, my desire to kill her outweighed the knowledge that Remy was alive.

Shit .

I can’t let my anger get the best of me. I can’t fail him again. Remy is alive . Gwyn’s death can wait.

She laughs, crossing her arms as she takes a few steps back—putting distance between us. Considering I’m staring at her carotid, wanting to bleed her out, it’s not the worst choice she’s ever made.

Betraying me, though? She will rue the fucking day.

“You guys know that’s bullshit, right?” She eyes the bunch of red grapes laid out by my father—an appetizer before the entrée of her heart—and pops one into her mouth. Her fangs have retracted, and my father’s blood stains her lips a cruel crimson.

Fuck, I can’t wait to steal her last breath.

“If Agnarr dies, his progeny die. If Ketill dies, his progeny die.”

“Bjorn is dead, and you’re standing here just fine.” Gwyn’s hand gestures to me.

“Bjorn wasn’t one of Ansi’s creations.”

“Wait, do you guys really think that all the vampires came from just Ketill and Agnarr? In the entire world?” Her eyes widen, and a harsh laugh forces its way past her blood-stained lips. “Oh my god, you do .”

“Have you not—” Nico begins, but his voice stops abruptly. Mid-sentence, his mouth doesn’t move. When I try to take a step toward him, I realize I’m rooted to the spot, also stuck. I have control of my eyes, and I’m able to breathe, but that’s it.

Agnarr has come.

“That’s a lie you’ve been told,” Gwyn begins.

She seems to be the only one in the room capable of moving, and she doesn’t notice it.

“For control,” she continues before trailing off.

Despite my father’s dried blood on her hands, she holds a fistful of grapes, and though she’s realized everyone is frozen in place, she pops a couple into her mouth anyway.

Speaking through a mouthful of fruit, she mumbles, “Well, fuck.”

“Hvar er hún?” Where is she?

Agnarr’s voice is far softer than I would have thought. Perhaps from disuse or perhaps the man I’d created in my head—feared my whole life—is nothing like what I’d imagined.

“Roman, do you know what he just said?” Gwyn asks, and I sense her body shift closer. I can smell her beneath my father’s blood. Rich, cinnamon apple—warm and inviting. She’s too fucking close.

It doesn’t matter that I would’ve been her sword only an hour ago. To use me as a shield after everything she’s done? Brazen fucking bitch.

“Oh, right, you can’t talk.” She huffs a laugh, and I think perhaps she’s having a mental break. But then I remember I don’t fucking know her at all; this could just be her default. Had any of it been true?

Crowding me, she keeps muttering to herself, no longer fearless. “Okay, uh, well. My commands aren’t working, and I’m sure he’s angry. Maybe I, well, I didn’t expect…I can’t do this on my own,” she whispers.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr yells again, and this time, his ferocity is similar to what I’d expected.

His footsteps are slow as he approaches, lured past the pile of headless bodies, and his bare feet are just visible in my field of vision as they step into the pool of Bjorn’s blood.

He’s an inch away from Margot, and I think of Kathleen.

The woman who’d tried to wake Agnarr and instead had been his first drink.

If his thirst isn’t quenched, if he still needs to drink, there won’t be anything I can do for my friend.

She can’t see him since she’s facing me, but her eyes dart left and right, terrified.

Her blonde hair is disheveled and there’s blood on her face, and she looks nothing like herself.

Gwyn has made fools of us all.