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It makes me think of Agnarr. What is he doing?

Where is he? If he’s on the move, does he hide during the day?

With his age, the touch of the sun on his skin would be blistering.

Perhaps he’s nearby, waiting. Or maybe he’s gone to find evidence of Gwyn’s mother’s death.

The whiskey burns as I throw it back, but not as bad as the ache in my chest from Emile’s grip.

Walking to the edge of the roof, I look down at the street below.

There’s a taxi pulled over across the street, hazards flashing as someone unloads luggage onto the curb in front of a hotel.

The roads are wet, shining in the streetlight’s gleam as the snow attempts to stick and fails.

I have a lot of fucking questions about how everything came to this, and only Gwyn can answer them. And even then, she might not know. Or more likely—she might not tell me. Did Cynthia rape Agnarr? Did she use some sort of sperm retrieval magic?

“What the fuck?” I murmur to myself over my train of thought. The insanity almost makes me laugh.

A millennia old vampire, Slumbering far beneath the compound, somehow managed to procreate with a hunter and make Gwyn.

Gwyn, the object of all my desires and inspiration for each of my nightmares, is a goddamn fluke of nature.

Wandering around the edge of the rooftop, I plan to get my answers.

My chest tightens, the heat of Emile’s grasp squeezing between my ribs and pulling, and I decide something has to give.

If Gwyn doesn’t let me go, I’m going to have to reconsider the option of jumping to the ground and hoping for the best.

The penthouse’s balcony is on the northwest corner, and it’s not a very far leap down from the building’s rooftop.

My feet slide in the light dusting of snow when I land, but I maintain my balance.

The hot tub has been used recently, the cover closed but no longer secured, and I grit my teeth.

The idea of Gwyn and her sister and their fucking friend soaking and drinking and celebrating what she’s done makes my eye twitch.

Slowly, I move toward the large bank of windows facing the living room.

Zuul lays sprawled on my father’s couch, dead to the world.

Gwyn’s dog has shed all over the white fabric, and I’m surprisingly amused.

Sure, Gwyn has taken over what doesn’t belong to her, but I like that dog.

Enormous, the German shepherd pushes a hundred pounds, and he takes up a large portion of the couch.

Zuul is the worst guard-dog to ever exist, and the fact he continues to snooze, tongue out, while I stand on the other side of the glass only proves my point.

I don’t see Gwyn anywhere, so I keep walking.

The floor-to-ceiling windows are tinted enough that the sun didn’t bother Bjorn, but I can still see through them.

Gwyn is nowhere to be found. The bed is messy, so I know she’s slept in it, but there’s no evidence of her presence.

She didn’t leave with Sasha and Hale, but I tap out a text to Margot to make sure.

I keep walking, wanting to look down at the street below once more, but I stop when I realize I’ve found her.

The penthouse boasts a soaking tub with a view of the skyline, and the foggy glass tells me she’s currently using it. Moving closer, I have no shame as I try to get a glimpse of her.

I might want to kill her, but I’m still a man. And Gwyn is still perfect.

For a second, I frown, confused. The bathtub is full of bubbles, nearly to the brim, but there is no Gwyn in sight. But then I notice a long strand of black hair, sticking to the porcelain.

She’s holding herself beneath the water. Her toes stick up at the end of the tub, and she’s using them as leverage to keep her beneath. Perhaps she’ll drown herself, and I won’t have to deal with her anymore.

I watch, waiting for her to surface. Scaring the fuck out of her might bring me some small amount of joy. Although it might not help my case when it comes to finding answers or getting out of this fucking compound. Still, though, I can’t resist.

But she never surfaces. I hold my own breath, realizing I have no idea how long I can hold my breath as a vampire. It certainly isn’t indefinite, but longer than a human, I’m sure. When I finally stop, inhaling deep, and she still hasn’t pulled herself out of the water, I begin to worry.

If she dies, Sasha might not give me Remy. If she dies, my coven disbands and scatters. If she dies, I won’t have my revenge.

“Gwyn!” I shout, slamming my fist on the window.

Nothing happens, so I turn toward the sliding glass door leading into the bedroom, finding it locked.

Hurrying toward the living room door, I intend to pull it from its hinges.

I have no idea if Hale warded the perimeter of the penthouse or just the elevator entrance, but I have to try.

Just as I start tugging on the handle, I hear a loud thud and turn.

The sliding door is open, and Gwyn stands there in a towel far too small for her body. She’s holding a gun, and my reaction is too slow. A searing pain goes through my shoulder and I fall backwards, slamming through the glass door behind me.