“There is no explanation.”
He thought her a monster. He thought she had hated him the whole time, so viciously that she would destroy everything he loved, and he had to think that if he was to keep his life. Juliette refused to drag him down just because she was weak-willed.
“I killed him because he needed to die,” Juliette said. Her arm whipped up. She twisted Roma’s gun away, letting it clatter at their feet. “Just as I will kill you. Just as I will not stop until you kill me—”
He slammed her into the pipes.
The effort was so forceful that Juliette tasted blood inside her lip, sliced by her own sharp teeth. She stifled a gasp and then another when Roma’s hand tightened around her throat, his eyes murderous.
Juliette was not frightened. If anything, she was only resentful—not at Roma, but at herself. At wanting to lean in even while Roma was actively trying to kill her. At this distance between them that she had willingly manufactured, because they had been born into two families at war, and she would rather die at Roma’s hand than be the cause of his death.
No one else is dying to protect me. Roma had blown up a whole house of people to keep Juliette safe. Tyler and his Scarlet men would go on a rampage in the name of defending Juliette, even if they too wanted her dead. It was all one and the same. It was this city, divided by names and colors and turfs, but somehow bleeding the exact same shade of violence.
“Go on,” Juliette said with effort.
She didn’t mean it. She knew Roma Montagov. He thought he wanted her dead, but the fact of the matter was that he never missed, and yet he had—all those bullets, embedded into the walls instead of Juliette’s head. The fact of the matter was that he had his hands around her throat and yet she could still breathe, could still inhale past the rot and the hate that his fingers tried to press into her skin.
Juliette finally reached for her blade. Just as Roma shifted forward, perhaps intent on his kill, her hand closed around the sheath beneath her dress and she pulled the weapon free, slicing down on whatever she came in contact with first. Roma hissed, releasing his hold. It was only a surface cut, but he cradled his arm to his chest, and Juliette followed close, leveling the blade to his throat.
“This is Scarlet territory.” Her words were even, but it took everything in her to keep them that way. “You forget yourself.”
Roma grew still. He stared at her, utterly unreadable as the moment drew long—long enough that Juliette almost thought he would surrender.
Only then Roma leaned into the blade instead, until the metal was pressed right into his neck, one hairsbreadth away from breaking skin and drawing blood.
“Then do it,” Roma hissed. He sounded angry. . . . He sounded pained. “Kill me.”
Juliette did not move. She must have hesitated for a fraction too long, because Roma’s expression morphed into a sneer.
“Why do you pause?” he taunted.
The taste of blood was still pungent inside her mouth. In a blur, Juliette flipped the blade onto its blunt end and slammed the handle to Roma’s temple. He blinked and dropped like a rock, but Juliette threw the weapon away and lunged to break his fall. As soon as her hands slid around him, she let out a small exhale of relief, stopping Roma just before his head could hit the hard floor.
Juliette sighed. In her arms, he felt so solid, more real than ever. His safety was an abstract concept when he was at a distance, far from the threats that her Scarlets posed to him. But here, with his pulse thudding through his chest and beating an even rhythm onto hers, he was just a boy, just a bloody, beating heart that could be cut out at any moment by any blade sharp enough.
“Why do you pause?” Juliette mimicked bitterly. Softly, she set him down, brushing his mussed hair out of his face. “Because even if you hate me, Roma Montagov, I still love you.”
Two
Roma felt the prodding sensation on his shoulder first. Then the stiffness in his bones. Then the terrible, terrible pain shooting through his head.
“Christ,” he hissed, jerking awake. As soon as his vision cleared, he sighted the black boot responsible for the prodding, attached to the last person he wanted to encounter while slumped on the floor.
“What the hell happened?” Dimitri Voronin demanded, his arms crossed over his chest. Behind him stood three other White Flowers. They were inspecting the storage unit with particular attention, eyeing the bullet holes studded into the walls.
“Juliette Cai happened,” Roma muttered, hobbling to his feet. “She knocked me out.”