“Yep!” Russ loops an arm around his Scion’s shoulder.

The two of them descend the stairs quickly and Nick gestures to keep walking. We stop at a room labeled 208, and he produces a key from his pocket. “I never use it, but my father keeps this room here for me.”

“Why don’t you use it?”

He shrugs, pushing the door inward. “Living here would send a certain message.”

I begin to ask what he means, but the sight of his bedroom, and the realization that that’s where he wants to talk, temporarily shorts my brain.

The room is large enough to comfortably fit a full bed, a dresser, a chest of drawers, and a trestle desk without sacrificing open floor space, which is more than I can say for my dorm. I wonder if all of the rooms in the Lodge have a similar layout, with similar furniture. The ones occupied by other members probably aren’t decorated in sailor-themed blue-and-white stripes, with an anchor-shaped rug at the foot of the bed.

Lord Davis had definitely taken a trip to Bed Bath & Beyond.

Nick closes the door behind me. When I step farther inside, I realize our rooms have something in common: they’re barely lived in. There’s nothing about his room that feels like it belongs to anyone, much less Nick.

When I turn to say as much, I find myself engulfed in his arms, his fresh laundry–and–cedar scent folding around me in a warm cloud. His hands are so large they span the whole of my spine. Heat from his palms radiates out from where he clutches me. Face tucked into my neck, he mutters, “That thing was gonna kill you right in front of me. All I could think was that it was my fault for bringing you in.” The worry and guilt in his muffled voice make tears prick at my eyes. Without my permission, my arms wrap around him, too.

“Funny story,” I say, trying to lighten the mood. “I’ve been blaming myself for bringing you in.”

When he laughs, the muscles in his back flex under my fingers. “Yeah, well, I said it first.”

I grin into his shoulder. My “no reason at all” responses suddenly feel completely justified.

Nick lifts his head. His eyes roam over my face, my healed cheek, my torso. “Are you sure you’re okay?” His left hand hovers over my side, fingers lightly touching the cotton material covering the now deep purple–and–black bruise on my ribs. Then, he seems to recognize how close his fingers are to other parts of me, so he steps back. Our arms fall awkwardly to our sides.

I’m floored that he knew to check for an injury there—that he’d been paying such close attention to where the uchel grabbed me. And I’m drawn to the two strawberry-colored thumbprints staining his cheeks.

“Bruised,” I mumble, still warm and confused, “just bruised.”