I can still feel it in me. It’s like restlessness under the skin—an urge to hunt more. The potential to be as out of control as the curse itself. “You all hunt vampires for the power.” It seems a lot less noble than looking out for the defenseless.

“It’s a reason for some. For others, it’s personal. If it matters, for your troupe, I don’t think they do it for the power.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe he’s admitting this. “But there’s also a tithe every year when we gather, whether we have the competition or not. Every troupe has to give some of their power to the mansion to keep the protection spells in place. Killing vampires makes it easier to meet your quota.”

“And that’s why you kill?”

“I’ll take down anyone who harms the innocent. But it’s also just me in my troupe. I have to meet the entire quota myself.” His face droops with weariness. He wobbles, like he’s still feeling the blood loss, as he looks over at the chain-link fence. “Did you climb that?”

“Yep.”

He stares at me, but it’s too dark to see his expression. “You’re different than I thought. I didn’t think you’d actually kill one.”

I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say to that. I always hoped I’d kill one someday, but how do you really explain that kind of drive to take a life—even a vile one? I should be more upset, perhaps. Some distant part of me does feel sick, but it feels right, too.

Roman grabs my arm and pulls me to the fence, and I lean on it again. His cool hand feels good against my arm, like it’s soothing the burning magic inside me, and some part of me just wants to press up against him and let his touch soothe all of me.

“Let me see your neck,” he says.

One of his hands finds the side of my face, and his thumb presses under my chin and tilts it up. His other fingers slide across the blood on my neck. I wince when he finds the wound, but it takes only a moment for the pain to go away. I can feel my skin stitch back together, but he doesn’t let go of me. He steps closer so that his arm is pressed between us.

His ragged breath brushes against my face.

My own lips part and release a breath that matches his.

His cheek grazes mine, and our lips almost touch at the corners.

My mind is a scattered mess of revenge and death and pain and lust and some kind of matching brokenness between us. Turning my head toward him would be complicated and hard.

“Fuck.” He pulls back.