I try to muffle my next footsteps and slip around him, but I’m too late.

“What are you doing down here so early? And … why do you look like you’re about to rob this hotel?”

My muscles bunch with dread. God help me. I consider acting like I haven’t heard him, but Cyrus is already snapping his book shut and striding over toward me.

“What are you doing down here?” I ask before he can interrogate me any further.

“Oliver snores too loudly,” he replies with a shrug. “Couldn’t concentrate on the book up in our room.”

“Or you didn’t want to turn on the lights to read and wake him up, because as much as you hate to admit it, you’re considerate like that,” I counter. I can tell from the way his dark brows scrunch like I’ve just engaged in character assassination that I’ve guessed correctly.

“You still haven’t answered my question, which leads me to believe that you are in fact about to commit a robbery—if so, all I ask is that you give me advance warning to avoid becoming an eyewitness. And if not, then you’re hiding something,” he says.

My gut tightens, a thousand flimsy lies falling apart inside my head before they can even reach my lips. Screw Cyrus and his incredible observational skills. When I don’t reply, he takes a step closer and has the audacity to reach for my hood—

“Stop it,” I hiss. The elevator rattles open behind me, and as the sound of English cascades toward us, panic erupts in my stomach. Desperate, I seize Cyrus by the arm and drag him around the closest corner with me. It’s the only spot in the lobby that’s empty—there’s just a stall selling overpriced antiques that even the owner must have given up on. Nobody seems to have bothered dusting the shelves in months.

“Wow, this is all, like, really suspicious,” Cyrus remarks. “Are you … hiding drugs under that hood or—”

“I got bitten by something, happy?” I tell him, twisting my head away from him.

“What? Is it poisonous?”

I freeze. Honestly, I’d been so worried about how the bumps look that I hadn’t even given thought to the actual medical implications. As if determined to validate my new fear, the itching in my eyelids intensifies to an unbearable degree. “I mean, I hope not,” I say, keeping my tone as breezy as possible while I clench my fist tight to stop myself from clawing at the (possibly lethal, but whatever) bites. “I was just on my way to buy …”

“Medicine?”

“No. Sunglasses.”

He takes a moment to digest this. “Okay. Okay, I’ll judge you for that later—let me take a look first. I brought a few different creams with me in case of emergencies—”