Claire shrugged. “A little.” She didn’t bother telling him about the gun she had purchased. Ever since leaving her apartment they spoke only when necessary. He had made it clear they weren’t friends—not lovers—merely cohorts united for a like purpose. It didn’t matter that she wanted more, that she wanted him. It was an odd sort of irony. He couldn’t let himself want her, because she might not live out the week. But she wanted him all the more, desperately, because of that same fact.

Gideon took the gun from her, flipped the lever on its side, and with a flick of his wrist demonstrated how to open the cylinder. He pointed at the flat faces of six silver bullets before turning the gun and emptying them into his palm. His movements were deft and practiced, those of a man long accustomed to handling firearms. “If you empty the rounds tonight, reload—immediately. Never be caught with an empty cylinder.”

Claire nodded. Gideon tossed the bullets in his hand. “Customized Colombian silver bullets.” They clinked together lightly. “Okay. This is the hard part.”

Her gaze shot to his grim face, arching a brow in silent question.

Seizing her hand, he dropped the bullets into her open palm. “Reload.”

Claire hissed in pain and dropped the bullets that scorched her flesh. They clattered noisily to the wood floor, spinning and whirring in wide circles at her feet. She stared down at her open palm, at the angry red welts rising on her skin—exactly six in number.

“Pick ’em up.”

“They burn.”

“You’re a lycan. Silver burns. Now pick them up.”

“What about gloves—”

“You’ll look strange wearing gloves in ninety-degree heat, and you can’t take the time to put on a pair of gloves when you need to be quick and reload.”

Claire sucked in a deep breath and pressed her wounded palm against her denim shorts in an attempt to reduce the sting. Flexing her other hand around the gun, she squatted and stared down at the innocent-looking cylinders, bracing herself to pick them up.

“If you can’t load the gun, you can’t defend yourself,” Gideon said above her. “You might as well quit right now.”

Quit. He meant die.

Swallowing, she poised her hand over one bullet. With a deep breath she grabbed it, ignoring that it felt like fire on her fingertips. Trying not to fumble, she slid it into one chamber. Her hand dove for the next one, afraid that if she stopped she would never finish. Sweat broke out on her forehead, and the smell of burning flesh seared her nostrils. After the fourth bullet, she looked at her hand. The fingers were badly blistered. Tendrils of smoke drifted above her palm and she gave a strangled cry, horrified at further evidence of her descent into a nightmare from which she could not wake.