His free hand rubbing at a sore rib, Kisten looked at me. He hesitated as if waiting for me to guess it before saying it. “He told me to kill you,” he said, and fear pinged through me. “He said it was the only way I could prove that I loved him. He didn’t ask Ivy to prove herself,” he said, his voice cracking and his need for my forgiveness pouring from him. “I said no. I told him anything but that…and he laughed.”

The heat from the burner against my back wasn’t enough to stop a shudder rippling through me. Kisten’s expression shifted to fear, but it was the terror of realization, not madness. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I couldn’t do it,” he rushed. “I’m going to die. He gave my last blood to someone as a gift. They’re going to kill me—and no one will hold them accountable. They’re going to get away with it. I could handle that,” he said, his quickening breath giving away his fear. “But he kicked me out of the camarilla, and no one will cross Piscary to keep me undead. It’s a double death sentence. One done quickly by a stranger who will suck me dry for his or her pleasure, the other slow by madness.”

His gaze met mine, and I froze at the controlled panic in his gradually widening pupils.

“It’s not a good way to die, Rachel,” he whispered, chilling me. “I don’t want to go insane.”

Tension pulled through me. Blood. He was talking about blood. He wasn’t afraid of dying, he was afraid of not having anyone to keep him undead afterward. And he was looking for me to help him. Damn it all to the Turn and back. I can’t do this.

Fear lay deep in his eyes, the rim of blue shrinking as he sat at the table in an empty apartment and saw his life fall apart and no one willing to risk Piscary’s anger to help him. I shifted forward and sat before him, taking his hands on my lap. “Look at me, Kisten,” I demanded, scared. I can’t become his source of blood. I have to keep him alive. “Look at me!” I repeated, and his darting gaze met mine in agitation. “I am here,” I said slowly, to try to ground him. “They won’t find you. I’ll work something out with Piscary. The thing is five thousand years old. It’s got to be worth both of us.”

The water from his bath glistened on his shoulders, his expression slack in fear as he looked at me as if I stood between himself and insanity. Perhaps at that moment, I was. “I’m okay,” he said huskily, and he took his hands from mine, visibly trying to divorce himself from his emotions. “Where is Jenks?” he asked, changing the subject.