There’s no point in locking myself back in Doug’s bedroom after Jack’s gone. The closer Doug gets to his apartment, the clearer his emotions become. His suspicion snakes through me, its long tongue sniffing around the edges of my magic. He knows something is wrong.

The light on the security panel blinks green a second before the door swings open. “Where are the Guards I stationed outside? And what are you doing out of your . . .” His head tips curiously and his lips part, a deadly flash of recognition flickering in his eye. It jumps to the bedroom behind me.

He licks his lips, as if he can still taste Jack’s scent in the room. “Sommers was here.” He saunters closer. His shirt is soured with the smoke from the hallway outside. “And he left without you.”

“Because I asked him to.”

“How honorable,” he says, brushing past me into the bedroom.

“It takes courage to walk away. You should try it sometime.”

“I was talking about you.” He inspects the room as if he’s expecting Jack to leap out from behind a door. I feel his thoughts probing, searching for an opening into my head.

“It’s endearing how you think he’s safer out there, hiding like a mole in the catacombs.” He drops onto the couch, loosening the top button of his shirt, less wary of me now that he knows there’s nothing I can do to hurt him. “But I’m not the only deadly thing lurking in the dark.” He raises an eyebrow, inviting a question. But I’m not sure I want to know what he’s talking about.

Doug watches me. I feel his magic circling mine, pacing, taunting. “Tell me, what did you and Sommers talk about while I was gone? Did you tell him about our little predicament?” he asks smugly.

“None of your business.”

“You must have told him. Otherwise, he never would have left. He’s far too heroic for that. But you didn’t tell him everything, did you?” He tips his head, watching me curiously. “Let me guess . . . you didn’t tell him how you got that stab wound in your leg. Because if he knew how vulnerable you are, he might be reluctant to defend himself. See? Like I said . . . you’re too honorable for your own good. He didn’t deserve you.”

His use of the past tense makes me want to put him through the faux window. “He deserves a hell of a lot more than you.”

Doug drags his phone from his pocket and scrolls absently through his messages, his voice falling low. So low, I almost can’t hear it when he mutters, “He’s a dead man, anyway.”

Static crackles in my hair. “What do you mean?”