“I’ll pack my things,” I said, frightened that she might know more about me than I did.

Her eyes opened. I thought I saw a faint glimmer of strength. “No,” she said, the first hint of her iron will returning. “We’re both crap when we’re alone, and I’m not just talking about the stupid firm. I promise I won’t ask anything of you except to be my friend. Please…” She took a breath. “Please don’t go because of this, Rachel. Do what you want with Kist. He’s a good man and I know he won’t hurt you. Just…” She held her breath, her determination faltering. “Just be here when I come home tonight?”

I nodded. I knew she wasn’t just asking about tonight. And I didn’t want to leave. I loved it here: the kitchen, the witch’s garden, the cool-factor of living in a church. That she valued our friendship meant a lot to me, and after avoiding true friendship for years because of what had happened to my dad, having a best friend meant a lot to me too. She had once threatened to withdraw her desperately needed protection from me if I left. This time, she hadn’t. I was afraid to look for the reason, afraid that it might stem from that tiny thrill I had felt when she had tasted my tears.

“Thank you,” she said, and I froze as she leaned forward over the table to give me a quick hug. The scent of almonds and leather filled my senses. “If Kisten can convince you that blood isn’t sex,” she said, “promise to tell me?”

I stared at her. The memory of Skimmer kissing her flashed through me and was gone.

Apparently satisfied, she let go, stood, and went into the kitchen.

“Ivy,” I breathed, too numb and strung out to speak louder, knowing she could hear me. “How many rules are we breaking?”

She hesitated as she appeared in the hallway, satchel and sword in hand, shifting from foot to foot and not answering me. “I’ll be back after sunrise. Maybe we can have a late dinner? Gossip about Kisten over lasagna? He’s actually a nice guy—he’ll be good for you.” Giving me an awkward smile, she left.