“Thank you for the same.”
Warmth envelops me.The warmth of Rogan’s arms, yes, but something more.And if this is home...
“Please,” I say.“Tell me.Who cut out the hearts of those vampires?”
38
"Ican't tell you that, princess."
"Damn it, Rogan.Why not?"
"I'm bound.Just as you're bound by blood to your father, so am I bound to my pack."
"Bound to keep something from me?From your mate?"
"For God's sake.I have obligations, just like you do, and I don't always like them.You of all people should understand.Do you like having to jump whenever your vampire king calls?"
"That's hitting below the belt," I say dryly.
"Is it?What's the difference, Hannah?Tell me so I understand."
He's serious.When he uses my name, he's always serious.
“Fine,” I say."Tell me it wasn'tyou, then.You already admitted to killing them.How does it make any sense that you're not the one who cut out their hearts?”
"I've already said it wasn't me.Do you think you'll believe me more freely if I say it again?And then again?How many times do I have to say it, princess?Two?Ten?A hundred?"
Before I can reply, the driver screeches to a halt, and I tumble into Rogan's arms.
He grabs my arm."We're going upstairs, princess.Up to my penthouse.And you will never, never mention this again."
"But I—"
"What the fuck did I just say?"He bolts from the back seat, dragging me with him.
"Are you kidding me, Rogan?It's not enough when I have to come when my father calls?You can think again if you assume I'm going to obey you without question."
"You will obey me in this, princess.You have no choice."
"Like I said"—I wrangle my arm out of his grasp—"you can think again."
I turn and race down the alley behind The London.I'm still not convinced that Rogan didn't cut those hearts out, no matter how much he denies it, and if he won't be truthful with me, I'll find out on my own.The irony isn't lost on me that I'm acting on my father's orders and that I have no choice but to do so.
Damned blood.
I'm not bound by blood to Victor Rogan, though, and I'll be damned if I take orders from him, mate or not.
I race through the alley, dodging the occasional tourist who makes his way off the strip and behind the resort, until—
Thud!
I'm flat on my back, and a wolf's paws are holding my shoulders down.
Rogan.He growls at me, the irises of his eyes swirling.
"Get off me, you fucking son of a bitch."
He growls again, and it occurs to me that "son of a bitch" has a new meaning when it comes to a canine.