I always knew Snow would ruin me. I thought he’d do it with his hands. That he’d run me through with that bloody sword. (Ha. Like Simon Snow would ever settle for a flesh wound.) He had to get me close to finish me off. Our relationship was the killing blow.

Did Simon ever love me? I’m not sure.

Would it be worse if he never loved me—or if he loves me still, but doesn’t want to be with me?

As soon as I decide which is worse, I’ll know which is true.

Fuck, this is bad. It’s so bad. It hasn’t been bearable for even a breath.

I thought I was ready for it—losing him. I thought I’d been bracing for it, for months. But I couldn’t know how awful it would be. And I have a feeling it’s just starting, that I’m still in the slow-motion part of it—that scene in a film where someone takes a bullet, then it takes ten seconds for their face to fall and another eternity before they clutch their chest. I’m in that scene, and my hand hasn’t even reached my heart yet. I’m still opening my mouth to scream.

“Turn off that music!” Fiona shouts from the next room. “No emo shit in my flat.”

I am emo shit. “This is electronic soul,” I mutter.

“It’s crap!”

I sit up and rub my face with my shirt. I should corner Fiona while I have a chance. I should make sure she doesn’t get arrested again. I should talk to her about Daphne. The world hasn’t stopped turning just because I’m dead and slowly dying. It could still get worse.

I stand up, and the blood drains from my head. I give myself a second, then walk into the kitchen. The kettle’s on, and Fiona’s reaching into the fridge.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Working. I do have a job.” My aunt is a vampire hunter now. The Coven gave her a warrant card. At some point, I should probably talk to her—I should probably talk to someone—about what I’ve learned about vampires. (The fact that they may not all be murderers. That some of them are more like sexy bedbugs.) If I thought Fiona was any good at vampire hunting, I’d make it a higher priority.

I lean heavily on the open refrigerator door, resting my elbows on it. “That’s why you’ve ignored my texts all week? Too busy working?”

She stands up, holding milk in one hand and ham in the other. She’s got a plum in her mouth. She shrugs.

I relieve her of the milk. “Fiona.”

She spits out the plum. “Is this about your stepmother? Christ, is that what’s got you all cut up?”

“What do you know about Daphne? Have you spoken to her?”