He laughed, the sound hoarse, and reached into my pocket, withdrawing a coin. “I made a deal with your father. Besides, you’re not going to die. You’re much too powerful for that.” He gently took my sister from my arms, ignoring my attempts to hold her.

I tried not to glance back, but I couldn’t help myself. My father’s body had joined my mother and grandfather, his mouth still frozen in a snarl.

“We’ll bury them somewhere pretty,” he promised. “Now let’s go.”

The memory faded. I stared at Samael, my chest so tight I could barely get the words out. “Your family.”

“I apologize,” he said, his face turning blank as he stepped away.

“No. It’s okay.” I raised my hand toward his face, let it hang awkwardly in the air, and then dropped it. “I’m sorry. How old were you?”

“Eight of your years.”

“What happened to the people who did it?”

“I killed most of them. But not enough. One of them took my grandfather’s throne, and he sits on it still.”

“Your grandfather was the ruler of the underworld?”

A sharp nod. I studied his face. At eight, the amount of power he’d used had been unimaginable. If I hadn’t seen it through his eyes, I wouldn’t have believed it. I’d thought him powerful when I watched him destroy the witches, but compared to turning an army to ash as a child, killing the coven was likely as mundane to him as washing his hands.

Samael had been tasked with protecting his sister, and he’d failed. Bile crept up my throat at the memory of her tiny, fragile body. It had happened centuries ago, but Samael’s memory was crystal clear.

I wanted to discuss this more. To ask who had raised him. I was suddenly desperate to know what else had shaped him into the man he was today.

“You wish to get back to work,” he said. “Go.”

“Samael.”

He turned away, but I didn’t miss the tiny hint of vulnerability in his eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders. He was sad. And I was about to do something stupid.

I followed him, and he turned back to me, any hint of feeling gone from his blank face.

I slid my hand up his chest and marveled at the ridges of his muscles. My hand seemed to have a mind of its own, sliding up to his neck. Both of us barely breathed. Finally, he stiffened, his eyes burning.

“Don’t pity me, bounty hunter.”

“I don’t.”

He glowered at me, and I shook my head. “It’s not pity. It’s sympathy.”