Humiliated by my own dependence and vulnerability, I flushed as I held my arms up so Marc could wrap a dry towel around me. Then I let him help me from the tub, where the water had grown cold again. He knelt to pull the plug, wariness still obvious in his every motion. “Okay. Everybody ready to discuss this rationally?”

Jace remained silent, his fists clenched at his sides, so I answered for us both. “Yes. But can we do it while you work on my arm? We don’t have a lot of time.”

Marc’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

I sighed and looked over his shoulder at Jace. “Could you give us a few minutes? Maybe find a vending machine? I could really use some caffeine.”

“I got Cokes,” Marc said, ever helpful.

I ignored him. “Some ice, then? Please?”

Jace’s normally cobalt eyes darkened almost to midnight. “You want me to leave you alone with him?”

“Why shouldn’t you?” Marc bristled, and his voice took on a dangerous edge.

“Because you came in here throwing punches.”

“At you, not at her.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m choking on testosterone here, boys.” I was also freezing. “Marc’s fine now. Right?” I eyed him expectantly, and he nodded.

“But he might not be in a minute,” Jace insisted, eyeing me intently. I got the message: this was as good a time as any to make our confession and get everything out in the open.

But I disagreed. Strongly. Neither of them would ever hurt me, but they would definitely hurt each other if they were both in the room when I told Marc what had happened.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Marc demanded.

“Nothing.” I shot Jace an angry, censoring look over Marc’s shoulder. “He thinks you’re on a hair trigger. Because you came in swinging.” Marc started to argue—vehemently—but I cut him off. “Jace, please go get us some ice. And maybe I could use a little tequila, after all.” To ease the pain in my arms, and smooth out the upcoming Shifts. And to settle my nerves, which felt like they were about to short-circuit, and take my brain with them.

“Fine. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Jace snatched his shirt from the floor where Marc had dropped it, tugged it over his head in a series of angry, jerky motions, and stomped out the door. Without the car keys. Evidently there was a liquor store within walking distance of the motel—no real surprise, considering what little I’d seen of the neighborhood.

When Jace’s footsteps had faded from the sidewalk, Marc crossed the room and chained the door.

I sank onto the end of the nearest bed, wishing I could tighten the towel wrapped around my chest—or maybe dry my own hair—without exacerbating the pain in my arms. “That’s only going to piss him off.”

“You can see how much I care,” Marc snapped. He obviously no longer felt the need to be particularly civil, now that we weren’t in danger of triggering Jace’s latent, lingering bloodlust.