My Guard partner did not seem burdened with such petty thoughts. He nailed every passerby with a look so fierce that some of them pressed themselves closer to the edge of the sidewalk as they walked by. He was the perfect Guard, ready for anything, utterly professional. I tried to do my part and stay vigilant, but as the hours dragged on, a late March chill descended on us with silent brutality. My toes got numb, and I started to stumble over the broken, uneven brick sidewalks on the west side of campus. When I rubbed my hands together and blew on them in an attempt to drive away the cold, Malachi’s hand closed around mine, and he tucked it into the pocket of his hoodie.

“We should have brought gloves,” he said, flattening my palm against his body. “Your fingers are like little icicles.”

I closed my eyes for a second, savoring this strange, unfamiliar sensation, this tender touch and what it meant: that he worried about me. And when I opened them, he was watching me so intensely that it sent electric bolts of heat along my skin. “I … should have planned ahead,” I stammered. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be at a movie, either. I wanted to be somewhere private and cozy with Malachi, where I could explore this crazy hunger, where I could maybe get control of it.

Because right now, I wasn’t in control. Malachi’s eyebrows rose, questioning, as I pulled my hand out of his pocket, and then his eyes grew wide as I slid my fingers up under his shirt instead. Both of us exhaled sharply as skin met skin. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Your hand is so cold,” he whispered, curling his hand around the back of my neck and pulling me close.

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t really, but I started to pull my hand out.

“Don’t stop.” He laid his forehead on mine.

“Malachi …” My heart was beating so fast that I was having trouble catching my breath.

“Lela.” He looped an arm around my waist. “It’s late, and it’s very cold out here. We have school tomorrow, and we haven’t seen any suspicious activity. Maybe we could go back, and …”

He trailed off, and we both stepped aside, getting out of the way of two guys in puffy coats and backward baseball caps trudging up the sidewalk toward us. I heard snatches of their animated conversation about the Red Sox as I turned back to Malachi. “Go back … and what?” I asked, staring at his parted lips. An inch or two from mine. Not close enough.

His fingers burrowed into my hair, as mine flexed over his back, under his shirt, where I could feel the striping scars made long ago by Juri’s jagged claws. They were hot beneath my fingertips. Malachi groaned softly and—