Chapter 7: Rough

"It's just a tune," I said. "I don't know where I got it. My mother, maybe. I told you, I have gaps."

The old man watched me for a long time.

"Gaps," he said. "How very useful."

"Grandfather," said Bram, and his chair scraped back. "We're leaving."

"Sit down. We have not had dessert."

"We're leaving," said Bram again, and this time the old man didn't answer.

He took my hand and walked me out through the hall.

We passed the portrait, and eight people pretending to look at their plates.

On the steps, the cold air hit my face, and I realized I was shaking.

"He's a bastard," Bram said. "He's been one for seventy years. It isn't you."

"It's partly me."

"No." He opened the car door. "Get in. I'll take you home."

I stood there with my hand on the roof of the car.

Dermot's face was still on the inside of my eyes. I had killed a man whose brother was holding my door.

And I wanted him anyway. I wanted it with a sick, steady certainty that frightened me more than Corvin ever had.

"Not home," I said. "Yours."

He went completely still.

"Calla."

"Don't ask me twice."

The penthouse was on the top floor of a glass tower near the water, and the elevator opened straight into it.

He hadn't turned on a light. The city lay below us in the dark windows.

He shut the door behind us and left the lock alone. He looked at me.

"I don't turn that," he said. "Not with you here. Try it."

I tried it. It opened.

"Good," I said, and kissed him.

He lifted me off my feet.

I wrapped my legs around his waist.

His mouth was hot and rough and everywhere, my lips, my jaw, the line of my throat.

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