I hate him. That’s what I tell myself. If I had the energy, anger would burn through me. I would scream. I would claw at him. I would spit in his face. But instead, I do what he’s waiting for me to do. I surrender, collapse into his chest, and let myself cry. It can’t be a pretty sight. This is no dainty, damsel-in-distress crying. My breath probably smells like puke, my face is wet from tears and, likely, strings of snot. My body shakes as I weep, and he continues to hold me tight while he strokes my hair and murmurs into my ear. He’s repeating something over and over, whispered words I can’t comprehend over my sobs.

When I’m finally all cried out, I stand and put some distance between myself and the still mostly naked boy who now feels like a stranger. I search his eyes, for what, I don’t know. But all I find is cool practicality.

He gathers his clothes and says, “We should get moving.” He exits the bathroom, and I follow him out. “It’s almost nightfall, and I want to act while the blood is in peak effect.”

Ugh. Does he have to keep reminding me about the blood?

“How long will it last?” I ask, my throat raw.

“It will be in my system for a few days, but the most powerful effects will only last about five hours. You must be warned, though, that if I need to exert a lot of power, I will exhaust myself much more quickly than normal unless I consume more blood.”

“No.” I shake my head emphatically. “That’s not an option.”

“Either way, you need to be aware of the risks.”

“What do we do with… her?” I gesture to the bed.

“She’ll wake up and leave. She’ll be perfectly fine, I promise.”

“What about the part where you, ya know, slit her wrist and drank her blood?”

“She won’t remember any of that.”

“You still violated her.” I gather the clothing I packed for tonight.

“That’s not—”

“It is.” I grab my bag, then head back into the bathroom to change, slamming the door behind me.

I tug on black jeans and a black turtleneck. When I packed them, I’d imagined feeling like a sexy cat burglar. I’d imagined wearing the ensemble over my hot-pink bra. I’d thought there was a good chance that Rafe might actually find out what bra I was wearing.

That seems like a lifetime ago.

Now I just feel ridiculous. I look at myself in the mirror, all the black making my pale skin stand out in ghostly contrast. I tie my hair in a tight bun on the top of my head.