Squinting, I came closer, and Dean tried to slide his left hand beneath his thigh. But I’d already seen what he held: his cell phone, flipped open and ready to dial.

“Nice try.” I stomped faster than he could react and smashed three of his fingers along with the phone.

Dean howled in pain, and I held my open palm out to Jace. He tossed me the roll of tape, then headed straight for the car. I peeled off a strip of tape and slapped it over Dean’s mouth, then pushed him onto his side—ignoring his wordless moan of pain—and bound his hands at his back.

With Dean silenced and immobilized, I marched toward the kitchen—and nearly jumped out of my own skin when Marc appeared in the open doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans from the backpack I’d left with him in the woods.

“Damn it, you scared the shit out of me!”

“Chingao!” Marc crossed the trailer in an instant, brows drawn low, gaze trained on my fresh cut. “What the hell happened to your face?” He took my chin and carefully tilted my cheek toward the light. “It’s straight and clean. Shallow, but it’s gonna scar.”

“I’m fine. What happened to you?” He was bleeding from a four inch gash on the left side of his rib cage.

“Found another one of Malone’s men in the woods. Fucker had a knife. Now I have his knife.” He patted his right pocket, where the outline of the folded blade stood out against his hip. “Your turn.” He glanced pointedly at my cheek.

I avoided his gaze. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a stupid cut.”

“Faythe, it’s your fucking face. Did Alex do this? Pinche carbon! I’ll kill him.”

I grabbed his arm, and before he could shrug free, Dean began edging away from us on the floor, stupidly drawing Marc’s attention. “Is that…? Colin Dean?” He tugged loose from my grip and dropped into a squat beside Dean. “Did you do that? That why she stabbed you?” He thumped the handle of the blade, and Dean groaned miserably. “This was Faythe, right?”

Dean sucked air in through his nose so fast I thought he’d hyperventilate.

“You fucking cut her?” Marc demanded. “Why? Just to do it?”

“He marked her,” Jace said, and I glanced up to see him standing in the doorway, looking three different brands of miserable. “Left his fucking calling card on her face.”

Marc was fury given form. His fist flew before I could stop him. His first punch smashed Dean’s nose, and blood spurted everywhere. Dean sputtered and choked on it. “How the hell is he supposed to breathe now?” I demanded, trying to turn the gory Canadian on his side to keep him from choking on his own blood.

“He’s not.” The next blow broke at least two ribs.

“Marc!” I pulled him back. “You’re killing him.”

“Damn right.”

“No.” I shoved him back and flinched at the pain in my wrist. “He’s not worth it. Not for revenge.” Death, we avenged with death. But I’d already cut Dean worse than he’d cut me.