Page 4

Agnarr kneels over my father. Waist length, white-blond hair settles into the blood, drawing the sanguine fluid through his strands.

He’s shirtless, and he’s so thin I can count each rib.

The shorts he wears look like something out of a Victorian era textbook, and I think perhaps they actually may be.

I know Agnarr Slumbered before the compound was built, and Bjorn relocated him for protection, so perhaps his clothes are just that fucking old.

“Gamall fjandmaeur,” he says in that same quiet way from before, though I believe his pronunciation is a bit different than my father’s was. I am much better at my mother’s tongue than Bjorn’s, so it takes me a moment to translate the meaning. Old foe.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr whispers, as if he’s speaking to himself.

Gwyn’s breathing is far too loud, and I can feel her heat on my spine.

When Agnarr’s thin face turns toward us, his eyes flicking over my shoulder toward Gwyn, I hate that a growl tears out of me on instinct.

It’s the only sound I’ve made since Agnarr took control, and I wish I could fucking take it back.

He stands to his full height, nearing my own, and then walks slowly toward us.

His feet leave prints as he approaches, each step making a sucking sound as flesh separates from the blood he tracks behind him.

I can’t find it in myself to wonder what he’s going to do.

Is he going to kill her? Kill us all? Does it even fucking matter?

As long as I get to watch Gwyn take her final breath, I don’t give a flying fuck what happens.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers against my back. “I can’t take him by myself, Roman. I—I’m sorry. In case he kills me, I never meant?—”

My legs buckle, and I sink to the ground by no choice of my own.

I can’t see Gwyn, but I feel the sheer fabric of her dress as it grazes my back.

Soft and flowing, it’s a caress, and I grit my teeth.

She’s shaking, and I remind myself the only reason I care is because if Agnarr kills her, I doubt I’ll see my brother ever again.

Dully, I struggle with the thought. It’s surreal to even think it possible. It must be the shock of it all that makes me think Gwyn has given me a gift. If she’s given me anything, it’s likely a curse.

“Hvar er hún?” Agnarr asks, and when Gwyn responds, I’m grateful my surprised laugh isn’t able to spill past my lips.

“You’re like a broken record. Can you say anything else?” For someone shaking and sounding terrified only a moment ago, she seems thoughtless. Unbothered.

Because she’s a fucking liar. An actress for the goddamn ages.

She screeches as she stumbles forward, and I think Agnarr must have forced the movement. Why hadn’t he done it sooner? Why hadn’t he controlled her with the rest of us? Sitting on the ground, I have to strain my eyes to watch.

“Hvar er hún, dóttir?” My heart starts beating faster when I realize she wasn’t lying about being his child.

No fucking wonder she’s as strong as she is.

How could he possibly know what she is to him?

Agnarr’s hand, pale and thin, gently caresses her bare shoulder, pulling the sleeve of her dress back up.

The touch is tender, almost reverent, and I don’t know what the fuck to make of it.

Hopefully he kills her, and I can stop caring.

“Hvar er mamma tín?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” she responds, and her honey eyes meet mine for only a second. Before she looks away from me, his hand is on her neck—lifting her. Her hands scramble to his, fingertips digging into his grip.

“Where is your mother?” he asks, accent thick but no less intelligible. Because of his waif-like appearance, I can see the detailed muscle in his biceps as it flexes, holding her aloft. Gwyn’s feet kick out as he strangles her, narrowly missing the side of my head.

“Dead,” she chokes out, and he instantly drops her. She flails, not even bothering to catch herself. Her torso lands on my legs, and her face smacks into the ground. “I killed her when I was born.”

“Dead?” he repeats as he looks down his thin nose at her. There is a faint likeness in their facial structure—oval faces and high cheekbones. He sneers, and I don’t see her in him anymore. He scoffs as he spits out the word in Icelandic. “Daueur.”

And then he’s gone.

I would have thought he disappeared if it weren’t for his bloody footprints leading out of the ballroom.

Gwyn rolls off me onto her back, coughing and choking and…

Laughing.

“Why am I still alive?” she huffs as she rubs her throat. Her nose is bleeding from slamming into the ground.

“Your guess is as good as mine. You’re like a fucking cockroach,” I say, pulling my legs out from beneath her.

She sits up, a smile lighting her face that makes her look simultaneously gorgeous and manic.

Lurid crimson paints her flesh while silky, black hair tumbles over her shoulders, and I have to look away.

“Can’t be killed,” she says, before collapsing backward, laughter shaking her entire body, and I can’t help but think she finds this all to be one sick fucking joke. Perhaps her desire to die hadn’t been an act all along.

If that’s what she wants, I’m more than fucking happy to oblige her.

“Now, let me see my goddamn brother.”

She snorts before issuing a series of commands, never bothering to stand.