As soon as I’d tipped off the police, I’d realized I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t go back home and put my family at risk. And while I could stay at the palace with Wrath, I needed time and space to sort out my thoughts and feelings. A lot happened in a short amount of time. Two more murders. A secret fiancé from Hell. Nonna’s attack. My stolen amulet. The Viperidae. It seemed the punches kept on getting thrown, and I was getting battered and bruised in the process.

The harder I clutched at normalcy, the more my world spun into chaos. Since I refused to see Wrath again for the moment, I decided to push everything out of my head and continue searching for answers in Vittoria’s death by myself. If I could solve my sister’s murder, I could prevent anyone else from dying. Every time I tried putting myself in Vittoria’s shoes, I kept coming back to her diary. It didn’t give up as many secrets as I’d hoped. And the ones it did reveal were still cryptic enough to keep me guessing.

I was going over a mental list of tasks to accomplish when the seat across from me was pulled out. Wrath dropped into it, eyeing me warily. I stared back at him for a few moments. Neither of us said anything. It seemed like my almost-husband was giving me time to collect myself. Or maybe he was waiting for me to banish him back to the bone circle again.

I took a few deep breaths.

“How did you know where I was?” He gave me a long, measured look, then glanced pointedly at the tattoo on my arm. I was definitely going to kill him. “You said you could only find me if I accepted the blood trade. You never mentioned the tattoo.”

“If I told you the ink was part of a marriage bond, you would have immediately run. I needed you to have time to trust me.”

I went to argue, but shut my mouth. It was true. If I’d known what the tattoo meant the first night I’d summoned him, I would have sent him straight back to his realm. “Trust is usually earned because both parties are honest.”

“I have not lied to you.”

I loosened a breath. “Not technically, no.”

A waitress came out and cheerfully recited the menu. Wrath seemed skeptical, but let me do the ordering without complaint. Thirty minutes of strained silence later, she brought out our food. Wrath considered it as if it were a complicated equation he was sorting out.

One steaming plate of scampi, some arancini, a platter of antipasto—stacked with prosciutto, peperoncini, soppressata, provolone, marinated olives, and artichokes tossed with oil, vinegar, oregano, and basil—and a basket of grilled bread graced our little table.

I kept waiting for the demon to pull the waitress aside and ask for warmed blood or raw innards, but he seemed content with my choices and I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to put the idea of uncooked offal in his head.

Wrath did surprise me by ordering a pitcher of red wine with orange slices, and poured a generous amount for each of us. I sipped my wine, enjoying the sweetness of it despite myself. I wanted to escape from my dark thoughts for a while, and the dinner and wine were helping. I hadn’t slept all night and it felt good to just collect myself and regroup. Wrath piled a plate with food, and slid it in front of me before serving himself. It took all of my concentration to not topple out of my chair from the shock.

He caught my eye and scowled. “Good manners are hard to break, no matter how unpleasant the company I’m forced to keep. Plus, you served me the dessert. It’s only fair to return the favor.”

I smiled, which seemed to rankle him more, and tucked into my food.

After a few minutes of watching him poking around at the scampi, I skewered one with my fork and held it out to him. His suspicion deepened. “What are you doing?”

“This is langostino. It’s like a baby lobster. I’m pretty sure you’ll like it. Unless you’re afraid . . .”

Wrath accepted the shellfish as if in challenge. He must have enjoyed it, because his focus shifted to his plate and he didn’t look up again until he’d sampled a bit of everything.

While he experienced the wonder of human food, I ate my scampi, enjoying the fresh lemon they’d used to cut the richness of the butter. Theirs was a bit heavier with citrus than ours, and I decided to experiment one day soon.

Maybe if I sliced a lemon in half, and grilled it facedown—

I paused, fork to mouth. I’d been enjoying myself so much I almost forgot the reason I was sitting there, with one of the Malvagi, eating. A month. My twin had been gone for a little more than a month, and I was daydreaming about recipes for Sea & Vine while in the company of our worst enemy. The food turned to stone in my stomach.

I pushed my plate away, no longer hungry.

Wrath watched me in a way a human might study a fly buzzing over their dinner. “Experiencing a moral dilemma, witch?”

I couldn’t muster an ounce of anger or annoyance. A hard blade of truth carved into me; I had no idea what I was doing. I was pretty sure my sister had summoned a demon, but didn’t know which one. I knew about the Horn of Hades, but didn’t know how we came to be the keepers of it.

Then there were the cryptic clues in Vittoria’s diary about her ability to hear magical objects, and the possibility of the first book of spells being in this world. I knew my sister agreed to become the devil’s bride, but still hadn’t figured out why she’d made that awful choice, or why she didn’t confide in me or our grandmother.

I had more questions than answers, and no one I could fully trust. Nonna almost died because of my quest for justice, and I refused to put anyone else in my family in danger by going to them for anything related to the murder. While Wrath might have saved me, he was a prince of Hell, and even though he’d vowed to not force a witch into a bargain, I still didn’t know how or why he was picked for this mission.

I leaned forward and dropped my voice. “I want to know everything about the curse.”

I stared at him, and his gold eyes—speckled with black—gazed back. “Have you considered moving in with me until we find the murderer?”

A most unexpected deflection. “I have.”

“Where are your belongings?”

“At home.”

He swirled his wine around, and I wondered what, exactly, he was thinking. “Would you like me to escort you there while you retrieve them?”

“I haven’t told you what I’ve decided.” I eyed him. “And I want you to answer my question. If Pride is the one who’s cursed, how does that affect you?”

“We should go back to the palace, and speak there.”

“Not until you give me some answers.”

Wrath looked like he was considering different ways to string me up using my innards. “I will. Later.”

“Now.” I refused to budge on this. He stared up at the sky and I wondered, if he was praying, why he hadn’t glanced down instead.

“Fine. If I answer your questions, will you agree to stay in the palace?”

“No. But it will help me decide. How about that?”

He drew in a long breath and slowly released it. I waited. After fighting some inner battle, I saw the exact moment he decided to confide in me.

“In order for the curse to be fully broken, a consort needs to sit on the throne and help rule House Pride.”

“Anir said the last consort was murdered. How?”

“Her heart was torn from her chest.” He looked at me, but I had a feeling he wasn’t really seeing me anymore. “Along with a few of her royal ladies.”

“Did the First Witch really curse Pride?”

“Yes.”

I allowed that information to settle in with all of the other tales I’d convinced myself were just stories. La Prima Strega was ancient—she’d begun the first line of witches. Or so the old stories went. Supposedly, she was the source of our power and belonged only to herself. No light magic, no dark magic. Just raw power slightly diluted from the goddess who’d birthed her. She predated human La Vecchia Religione—and the Old Religion was old.

At times La Prima was idolized, and at others, feared. Daughter of the sun goddess and a demon, she was created as the perfect balance between light and dark. We were told she was immortal, but I’d never seen her and didn’t know anyone else who had, either. I always believed she was no more than a creation myth or legend.

“Why did she curse him?”

Wrath hesitated. “It was punishment for what she thought happened between her firstborn and him.”

I sat up straighter. Claudia had mentioned this. “So, what, he stole her soul and La Prima took her vengeance?”

“Witches would believe that, wouldn’t they?” Wrath scoffed. “Pride didn’t steal anything. He didn’t have to. Her daughter willingly chose to wed him. They fell in love, despite who they were.”

I thought about what Nonna had started telling me about Stelle Streghe, about how they were tasked with being guardians of the Wicked. “She was a star witch?”

Wrath nodded. “She was meant to be a guardian between realms—think of them as wardens of the prison of damnation. Her daughter should have known better, she was supposed to be a soldier first. La Prima, as you call her, commanded her daughter to give up her throne, and return to the coven, but she refused. The First Witch used the darkest kind of magic to remove her daughter’s power and banished her from the coven. It had unforeseen effects for other witches, too. It’s why some give birth to human daughters.”

I mentally sorted out the story. “What you’re saying is . . .”

True. I stared at him. Our whole lives we’d been told stories about the Wicked, and their lies. Yet Wrath couldn’t directly lie to me because of the summoning magic. I’d tested it and knew it was a fact. What he was saying, no matter how impossible it sounded, had to be true.

Or at least he believed it was.

“Why are you helping him break the curse? If he’s trapped in the underworld, I don’t see why that concerns you or any other prince.”

“Several human years ago, something fractured the gates of Hell. We’d been told it was part of a prophecy. Pride, being who he is, laughed it off. Then his beloved wife was murdered. His powers dampened. He was trapped in Hell, and lesser demons began testing us by trying to slip through cracks in the gates.”