I'd felt the winding of wicked power ensnaring my legs far too late to save myself from tripping face-first into a pool of mud—thank you very much, Wychthorn.

My brothers waited inside my quarters while I showered off the sludge. Changing into a fresh tuxedo, I roughly dried my hair with a towel while entering the guest bedroom and its living space. Jett moped around with his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, finding displeasure in everything, even the Klimt painting. As usual, my youngest brother was typically dressed in an over-the-top style. The silver tuxedo's fabric shimmered with his moody movements.

Folding the damp towel up neatly, I hung it over the back of a chair near where Caidan stood with his back to us. He stared through the window at the gardens lit up with wildfyre torches and watched House Zielenski, who oversaw our brothels, entering the arched entrance to the marquee. Caidan had been on edge since he'd arrived at the Wychthorn estate. His normally easy-going smiles were few and far between. Something was on his mind, but I didn't have the headspace to give it room.

I tugged my shirt sleeves down over my wrists and twisted the gold cufflinks into place, before shrugging on the navy jacket of the spare tux I'd brought with me—thank fuck. Giving it some thought—how the day was obviously heading between Wychthorn and myself—I strode over to the bedside table and grabbed my phone, sending a quick text to Ferne. My sister wouldn't have left our family estate just yet so she'd be able to bring me some spare tuxes, just in case.

Slipping my phone into my pocket, I strolled to a mirror hanging on the wall while running my fingers through my damp hair, tousling the wavy locks. Kenton handed me a new tie—my brothers and I didn't do bow ties—looking like penguins, no thank you. Wrestling with the damn tie, I struggled to knot the fucking thing while cursing beneath my breath. None of us were any good at this. Ferne always fixed our ties for us.

Kenton was built like a rugby player and dressed in a classic three-piece tuxedo. He was born an old soul, more like our aunt—ice-cold, quiet, and wholly fixated on vengeance. Jett and he were deceptively alike, though Jett hid it by being loud and obnoxious.

Kenton poured a drink for me. His sharp eyes met mine in the mirror as his deep bass voice rumbled, "One month, Gray, before the Alverac puts her in our hands."

I returned a dark look. As if I need fucking reminding.

About to take the whiskey Kenton offered, my outstretched hand stilled when I caught Jett's reflection in the mirror. My youngest brother lurked at the adjoining door between Wychthorn's room and my own, fiddling with the brass-plated door handle. "It's locked," he scowled.

After what I'd done to Wychthorn last night, she had every reason to lock me out. There was probably a fucking armoire shoved up against it as well. But I didn't say that either.

There was something slender in Jett's hand and I realized too late what it was—a Shadow Key. We, Crowthers, were thieves after all, and a locked door was nothing to us. Within a second, Jett had picked the lock and pushed open the door.

Fury razored through my blood and I spun around.

"Oops," Jett said, grinning at me.

"Get your fucking nose out of there!" I barked, storming toward him. It infuriated me that Jett would dare think he could slink through Nelle's quarters. But did he listen? Fuck no. He just tossed me one of his jerkass smirks and strode right on in.

My brows inched closer with confusion when I heard Jett's footfall and the strange sound of crunching coming from beneath his shoes. He loosed a long, low whistle before muttering, "Holy hellsgate."

Pushing forward fast, I was inside Nelle's quarters in an instant, drawing flush with him.

Jett and I shared a disbelieving look.

What the hells happened?

Was this because of me?

A horrible sick feeling twisted my gut.

It looked like a hurricane had swept into her rooms and destroyed almost every single thing. There were a few items that remained untouched, like her books, computer, and media system. But everything else was wrecked beyond repair. The four-post bed was a heap of shattered wood, its linens shredded into tattered strips. Stuffing from the mattress and pillows, reduced to fluff, littered the floor with the rest of the debris. The armoire, dressers and tables, couches and armchairs, and clothing were obliterated. Porcelain and ceramic and glass and mirrors—dust. And all those pictures tacked to her walls were torn into tiny pieces and blanketed the mess like a layer of ash.

"What did this?" Caidan asked, frowning.

Me.

Because I could taste the residual anger tainting the room and the faintest tang of heartache.

But I replied, "Who—that's what you should be asking."

Shit, shit, shit—

Wychthorn's anger was fresh. She'd clearly exploded with fury after fucking with me outside the marquee. And here, Wychthorn unleashing in her rooms, with all the Houses just outside—reckless and stupid. She was either losing her control over what she was or her anger with me had overridden good sense.

"This...is coming to live with us next month?" Jett murmured, dread coating his tone, as he slowly turned around, taking in the destroyed room.

Caidan's gaze traveled across the great rents gouged into the walls and ceiling. He arched an eyebrow at me. "The girl is seriously pissed off."

I tipped my head from side to side, examining the deep jagged gashes. They almost resembled slashes as if something with claws had taken to the plaster and wood.

"What is she?" Kenton demanded quietly as he came to stand alongside me.

I bristled. It was the same fucking question he asked every single time I'd returned from my day spent in Nelle's company.

Without answering, I stalked from her room, my shoes crunching through glass and splintered wood, returning to my own quarters. I headed straight for the tumbler of whiskey Kenton had placed on the table beside the outside window. Snatching it up, I downed it all in one go and poured another.

Godsdammit—I'm a fucking asshole!

Last night I'd pushed Nelle away in the one way I knew would hit her hard. But I guess I'd taken it too far, hit her too deeply, and my timing, as usual, sucked ass. The Horned Gods Blessing was in a few hours' time and all the Houses were gathered outside. But this...I hadn't anticipated this. Wychthorn's anger, sure, I expected that—the girl could burn the world down because of a slight—but I'd expected coldness, for her to slyly mess with me. Not to use her power to fuck with me or decimate her bedroom.

Shit, she was being utterly irresponsible.

Or else...it was beyond her control, her volatile emotions intertwined with whatever she was.

And that, in there, in her bedroom, was all on me. Just because I didn't want to talk about my scarred back with her. Didn't want to confess what had happened that night, long ago, that pitted our two Houses against one another. Because that night, I'd unwittingly chosen her over my own family.

Fuuuck!

I kicked the leg of the table hard enough to crack the wood and sent it slamming against the wall with a heavy thunk. The bottle of Macallan jostled, sliding over the tabletop and I swept it up before it fell and spilled everywhere. I took a swig right from the bottle—getting drunk was certainly appealing.

I heard my brothers re-entering my room, the soft snick of the adjoining door shutting behind them.

"Gray," Kenton prodded, thinly veiled anger tainting his deep voice.

I turned to face them, feeling sick and disgusted with myself. The three of them stared back at me with their various shades of violet eyes, waiting for me to speak.

Well, fuck them. I clamped my mouth tight.

"The Houses are right outside that door," Jett snapped. His face twisted into a contemptuous glare at Wychthorn's stupidity. "Anyone could have felt this, seen this."

"Did you?" I bit back. Because I sure hadn't. She'd contained it somehow. Fuck knows how, but she had. My nostrils flared as my fingers fisted the neck of the bottle. I was one breath away from smashing that snide look from Jett's face.

"If she's discovered before we claim her, all our plans are fucked!" Jett shot back.

"I KNOW! I FUCKING KNOW!" And I hurled the bottle at the wall. Shattered glass and whiskey exploded all over the Klimt painting. Amber liquid ran down the wall in a river to soak into the carpet.

But I wasn't pissed at my brother. I was fucked off with myself. Hissing through gritted teeth, I paced back and forth, willing myself to calm the fuck down. It was quiet between us for a drawn-out moment. While Kenton and Jett assumed my outburst was over my inability to control Wychthorn, Caidan searched my face, his own features becoming thoughtful as he slowly came to another conclusion.

I dropped my gaze from his and hardened my resolve.

She means nothing to me.

Nothing.

"Is that normal?" Jett asked, slanting his chin toward her rooms beyond the adjoining door.

"Yeah dickhead, the girl likes to redecorate her bedroom once a week." I barked sarcastically, scowling at him.

Jett pressed a spread hand to his chest, and mocked me with a hurt look, "Dude—harsh." Then rolling his eyes at me, he silently padded over to my bed and sat down. He dug a dagger from where he'd strapped it to his combat boots—no polished Oxfords for him—and started tossing the blade up into the air, catching it on the downward glide, only to toss it back up again.

"So what the hells was that in there about?" Kenton asked, shifting his weight to his other hip, his dark violet eyes narrowed.

Behind Kenton, Caidan slowly shook his head at me with a disappointed look that antagonized the fuck out of me. Neither Kenton or Jett saw him, but I heard the silent accusation—You did that to her, you fucker.

I shrugged a shoulder as if I didn't know. But I did. Caidan was right. That mess in there was all because of me.

"What do you know?" Kenton said. It wasn't a question, it was a demand.

I rubbed my face and dragged my hand through my damp hair, tugging hard enough that a burning pain swept across my scalp. My gaze fell on Caidan. Out of the four of us, he was graced with more lightness. He knew what the Wychthorns had done to our family, but our aunt had never quite twisted him to the way the rest of us viewed Nelle. He didn't say anything as his eyes bounced between mine, but I could see he read me easily—the indecision I grappled with.

This was it. This was the moment I had to choose between my family and Nelle.

My gaze slid to the beige carpet, and I rubbed the back of my neck, not understanding why there was such heaviness inside my gut.

Gods, why is this so hard to do?

I needed to choose. I had to choose.

So I closed my eyes and remembered my little sister's terror, her agonizing screams, and my mother on her knees begging for my life...and me...it was just me between the two people I loved the most and them. I'd been thirteen at the time, but like all my brothers, I'd been raised in the art of violence and could wield a sword before the age of five. But I was nothing, absolutely nothing, facing off against a Horned God. I was a mere insect, annoying, but easily swatted aside.

Opening my eyes, I began to talk. And as I talked, my brothers' eyes grew wider and wider.

I went through what I'd learned. Each word betrayed and condemned Nelle, and as I told them everything I knew about her, I felt as if I was flaying my own soul.

I explained about the Uzrek, what had happened down in that dank catacomb. Why she'd gone there in the first place seeking answers for herself. But I left out what the Uzrek had said about me, about us.

You do not know what you are either, son of the Wyrm.

Do not know what you mean toge—

I just fucking knew it was going to say—together. But what else was it going to reveal? What was it between us?

Caidan blew out a breath of disbelief, but then a small smile tugged his mouth up. "She sought out the Uzrek?"

"She didn't just seek the Uzrek out, she put him in his fucking place," I replied.

Jett's face scrunched with an odd mix of disgust and awe. "She can swift?"

Everything we knew said nothing living can swift and yet I'd swifted with her.

I had no idea how I was able to survive that endless abyss of shadows. Maybe just her holding me. A shudder rippled down my spine at the memory of that creepy sensation, like ghostly hands pawing all over my body, icy tendrils of power trying to trap me in the void forever. And the eerie feeling we weren't alone in that place either.

"I've seen her with fire, the ground quaking, aether charging the air, manipulating wind," I told my brothers.

"All of them?" Caidan asked, his eyebrows rising nearly to his hairline.

I nodded.

"Holy fuck," he hissed, running a hand down the front of his white dress shirt before he turned away to snatch up his drink and gulp it down.

I shared the last of my tale, of what had happened down in the catacombs and what was left of those things after they tried to kill me and capture her. "Those hunting her in the catacombs—she incinerated every single one of them to ash."

Jett flopped straight-backed upon my bed. He shoved away the wayward hair from his forehead with the fist wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. "Holy shit, we are so fucked."

Kenton sank into a chair, propping an elbow on the armrest while rubbing his chin with his free hand. For a while, silence filled the room as my brothers contemplated what I'd revealed—what that meant. None of us knew of any recordings of mortals or anyone from the Houses serving the Horned Gods who controlled more than two elements. Mostly, others fell into singular brackets. There were all kinds of others. Some could manipulate emotions, the kind we used to alter the mood in our gambling halls to entice the patrons to chase the thrill of a winning streak. I didn't know the depth of the well of dark power Wychthorn could draw from.

Nor what else she was capable of.