swell when the loup-garou comes out. “Who. Hit. You?”

That’s not fucking important! Why couldn’t he just listen to me? “I just . . . just . . . I . . . Graves—”

Of all the times for my mouth to fail me, this was the worst. But his rage, swimming in the air and

rasping against the touch, made it hard to think. And worst of all, the bloodhunger came back, circling that special space at the back of my palate with cat-tongue fingers. Rasping. My entire mouth

tingled.

If I sprouted fangs now, what would he think of me?

“You had better tell me something,” Graves said quietly. “I hate not being told, Dru. You know I

hate not being told.”

What? He was making no sense. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out, and I shut it again.

Because I could feel the fangs lengthening. They touched my bottom teeth lightly, the entire shape

of the jaw changing.

Oh, please, no. No.

“Fine.” Graves turned on one heel, so fast his coat flared out and touched my knee. Stamped away,

paused right next to the door. His head dropped, shoulders shaking, and one fist pistoned out.

The wall gave a crack. Powder and dust puffed out; tiles shattered and split in zigzags. I flinched

again. “Stop!” I yelled, and every droplet of fog in the locker room flashed. Tiny little diamonds, all

hanging spinning in the air.

“When you feel like telling me,” he said very softly, “come and find me.”

He shrank a little, the change receding through him. Took his fist away from the divot in the wall

and shook it briefly, flinging little shards of tile away. Startling red spattered on the wall, and the

smell of blood exploded inside my head.

Almost-wulfen. A tang like strawberries mixed with incense. Green eyes and the metallic hint of

snow, caramel skin and chapped hands. It was like seeing him in four dimensions, an extra layer

added onto the everyday Graves who slept in my room and pecked me on the cheek each evening.

I held onto the sink like it was a raft and I was drowning. “Please. Let’s just leave. You and me.” A

faint, girlish whisper. “Graves. Please.”

“Yeah. Run away. Sure. Just like my mom. Run away and go back each time.” He waved his lacerated hand. The wounds were already closing—wulfen heal fast, and he’d gotten a full dose of that

talent, even if he didn’t get hairy. “But I swear to God I will find out who did this to you. Even if

you don’t think you can trust me.”

The thirst roared through me and my fingers sank into the porcelain with little creaking sounds. If

he went running off after Anna right now . . .

He yanked the door open so hard it hit the wall and more tiles shattered. The mirror above the sink

cracked in gigantic zigzags, a spiderweb of expended force.