In spite of our injuries—or maybe because of them—we didn’t feel safe enough to stop for first-aid supplies until we were more than a hundred miles from Malone’s property. And even then, we hesitated, both because we were still in the heart of enemy territory and because none of us was exactly presentable.

In the end, we decided Jace should do the shopping, because with the bill of his hat twisted to cover the side of his head, he was the one least likely to prompt a call to the authorities. Marc’s wound had bled through his shirt, and I had a cut-up face, a sliced-open top, and finger-shaped bruises around my neck. If we were seen, some kind stranger’s concern could end in a call to 911.

But that was only part of it. Marc and I needed time to talk. Alone.

He parked near the back of a Walmart parking lot as the sun began to go down, and I jotted a list on a scrap of paper I found in the glove compartment. As soon as Jace was gone, Marc turned to me. “You should have let me kill him.”

At first, I thought he meant Jace. But then Marc’s gaze strayed to my cheek, and I understood. He meant Dean.

I ran one finger carefully over the cut. The pain had dulled a bit, but my anger had not. “Maybe so. But I think he’ll suffer more now.”

“If I see him again, I’ll kill him.”

Too tired to argue, I let my hand fall into my lap. “Fair enough.” With any luck, the next time we saw Dean would be during full-scale war. His death would be justified. “If I don’t kill him first.”

After another minute of silence, Marc glanced into the empty backseat. “You know it’s all I can do to be in the same car with him. Every instinct I have is telling me to kill him.”

Clearly, we’d moved on to Jace.

“I know.” My heart felt as bruised as my throat. “What about me?”

“I’m trying really hard not to hate you right now, Faythe.”

I blinked back fresh tears. “I hate myself right now.”

“Then why did you do it?” His teeth ground together audibly. “Just…why?”

I tried to speak and choked on a sob instead. There was no simple answer. No logical reason. Jace and I had connected in a moment of heart-wrenching grief, and no one was more surprised than I was to discover that that connection went beyond the physical.

“Do you love him?” Marc asked, each word harsh, like he’d almost gagged on them.

I forced myself to look at him. To give him eye contact, at least. “Yes.” And that realization made my head spin violently. “I don’t want to, but I do.”

Marc fell back against the door, like I’d punched him, and that ache in my chest settled a little deeper.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen. Any of it.” I didn’t want to make excuses—he deserved much better than that—but he obviously wanted an explanation. “You were missing, and Ethan had just died. His blood was still wet on the couch. And we were all hurting so much. Jace, just as badly as the rest of us. Maybe worse, because he didn’t have anyone to turn to, and at the time, neither did I. Everyone was handling it differently, and I didn’t know what to do.”