Page 20 of Thorns from the Fall

“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.”

Gwyn hasn’t moved a muscle in the last nine minutes. She stands there, frozen, and glares at me. At one point she crosses her arms over her chest, but she realizes it makes her tits look amazing when I devour the sight of her. After drinking her blood and coming in my goddamn pants, there’s no point in pretending I’m not attracted to the woman. Strangely, I think of the book of Robert Frost poems my mother had when I was a child. She’d used them to help with her English, and I have fond memories of listening to her read out loud. When Bill Parsons lopped off my mother’s head, a few drops of her blood had landed on the cover, but I’d kept the book to pull out whenever I missed her. Some of Frost’s words are tattooed in my mind, memorized in some attempt to bring my mother back from the dead.

The destructive power of beauty in nature features heavily in those verses, as well as in my thoughts about Gwyn. She’s dangerous in her perfection, and I should have been prepared for it from the start. But now, all I can think about is a differentpoem—my mother’s least favorite. It unsettled her, but I think that’s the point.

“‘From what I’ve tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire,’” I murmur before standing to retrieve the liquor myself, since Gwyn clearly has no intentions of doing it, and I’m kind enough to bring two glasses back with me.

When I set our glasses down and pour, Gwyn doesn’t move. She hardly even breathes. As I raise my drink to my mouth, I meet her frigid gaze.

I think I know enough of hate to say that for destruction ice is also great, and would suffice.

“I have some questions for you,” I say, gently placing my glass down. For a moment, I expect Gwyn to continue her statuesque act, but then her hand darts forward and she throws my drink into my lap. That’s twice she’s gotten my dick wet in a less than preferred way.

“Fuck your questions,” she says, but I’m too fast. Grabbing her wrist, I tug, and her elbow lands on the countertop. She bares her teeth, and the tips of her fangs dig into that plump lip.

“I’ve taken a fine-toothed comb to each and every fucking moment between us, sweetheart. One jumps out at me, and I think I know why.”

Gwyn growls, trying to pull herself from my grasp, but I don’t let go. She uses her free hand to push against the counter, and I grab that wrist too. I’m supposed to be asking about her plans for Agnarr and the coven—because I don’t think it’s nearly as simple as she’s made it out to be—but for some reason, one of the many questions I’ve mulled over while falling asleep is what I come up with instead.

“You remember our road trip from Virginia, yes?”

“Which part? The part where you didn’t let me out for hours and I pissed myself, or the one where I got treated like a human?” she grits out.

My gaze is drawn to her tits once more and the way they’re pushed together against the counter. I need to get my shit together, but I’m certain it irritates her, so I don’t hold back too much.

“Your heartbeat. It didn’t change much when I told you I was a vampire.” She says nothing as she tries and fails to free herself from my grip. “Because you already knew. But when I brought up your dad…” I trail off, waiting for her to confirm my suspicions. Her heart rate had sprinted out of control, and at the time, I’d figured it was a delayed reaction. Now? Not so much. When her amber gaze darts away, I let out a soft laugh. “You didn’t know Bill killed my mother, did you? You honestly thought a hunter wouldn’t kill for sport?”

“My father wouldn’t kill anyone unprovoked. Your mother likely deserved it,” she says, but I can tell she doesn’t mean it. Gwyn might be an accomplished actress, but now that I’ve spent days parsing between the truths and lies, I think I have a decent idea. She won’t meet my eyes, and her body goes slightly limp. The fight has gone out of her.

Just like it did when I told her I loved her. She didn’t say it back because she wouldn’t be able to convince me it was true. I’d thought she was still angry or that maybe what I’d said to her had been her limit. I know the truth now.

She’s always had tells—I just wasn’t good at reading them.

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