I sighed. “Marc, please. We don’t have time for this. You’re truly overreacting.” This time… My arms were killing me, but I was not going to use pain as an excuse to avoid the subject. That would be like flashing a little cleavage to get out of a traffic ticket.

“Good. What happened?”

“Nothing.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “I can’t use my fucking hands, so he was helping me.” Shut up. You sound guilty when you cuss…

“That didn’t sound like helping, Faythe. Don’t lie to me. What the hell happened in there?”

I took a deep breath and sent up a silent thank-you for his blessedly restrictive phrasing. “We were just flirting. Joking around, like we used to. It was nothing, Marc.”

“Oh, yeah?” He snatched all three of the plastic bags from the table. “Then why is he acting like…like your fucking mate?” He gestured angrily toward the locked door with his free hand, since Jace wasn’t there to point at. “That wasn’t the reaction of a good friend. That wasn’t even the reaction of some poor fool with a crush. He’s acting…possessive.”

“No.” I shook my head. No. “He’s not acting possessive, he’s acting protective. Because you came in swinging. He’s an enforcer. Part of his job is to protect me, and he thought you were going to hurt me.”

“Only because he’s not thinking rationally. Because he thinks you’re his. If not up here…” Marc tapped his temple. “Then in here.” He poked his own chest hard enough to bruise, and I flinched.

“He’s always been protective of me. You all have. Hell, he stepped in front of a bullet for me, Marc. That’s no different from this.” That was true, but did nothing to assuage guilt so thick and heavy I could hardly breathe.

“The hell it isn’t.” He dropped the bags on the bedspread next to me but didn’t sit. “He’s never tried to defend you from me.”

“Maybe he never thought he needed to before.”

Marc recoiled like I’d punched him, and shame flooded me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and Marc began pulling supplies from the bags. Two bottles of hydrogen peroxide, a suture kit, sterile gauze, medical tape, a new pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and underwear. And finally he sank onto the bed, folding the jeans while I sat with my useless hands in my lap.

“He’s not right, Faythe. He hasn’t been since Ethan died. He’s acting possessive of the Pride tabby.…” I opened my mouth to object—he knew how badly I hated being referred to as such—but he spoke over me, intent on making his point. “He’s resisting orders, challenging his superiors, bristling under authority.…”

Only your orders, you as his superior, and your authority. Jace had exhibited none of those reactions to my father. But I couldn’t say that until I was ready to say the rest of it.

“He’s acting like…” Marc looked up then and laid one hand on my leg to make sure he had my full attention. “Faythe, he’s acting like a challenger.” He hesitated, and I knew what was coming. I shook my head vehemently, but he said it, anyway. “He can’t stay. Once this is all over, Jace has to go.”