Jerking my hand away from him and taking a deep breath to calm my body, I stand up. “I can never forgive you for violating that girl.”

“I didn’t violate her.”

“You drugged her and used her body without consent.” I know what it’s like to find out I’ve had my blood stolen. To be lied to and used as a pawn.

“She is completely unharmed and will never know or care.”

I shake my head. “And that’s just it—you’re not even sorry.”

He closes his eyes and exhales deeply but doesn’t respond.

I go to the bathroom to wash up and change into pajamas. When I come out, I look to where Hypatia’s sleeping soundly in the center of one bed. Rafe is stretched out in an undershirt and silk pajama pants on one side of the second bed, watching me, his eyes holding a challenge. I silently walk to the other side of the bed, tuck myself in, and stare at the ceiling.

“I’m not the villain here,” Rafe says softly from next to me.

“Well, you’re definitely not the good guy.”

“Neither are you.” The mattress moves beneath me as he shifts his body to face mine. I turn my face toward him and find him much closer than I realized. He adds in a velvet whisper, “And maybe that’s why we work so well together.”

The spicy scent of his nearness invades my senses. I swallow tightly. “There’s no ‘we.’ You and I don’t work together anymore.”

He blinks. And it’s like a curtain comes down. All vulnerability replaced with the familiar chill, all traces of emotion gone. “If that’s the way you want it,” he says with a sneer. His voice is hard and mean.

I turn my back on him and try to sleep.

I don’t sleep well. But staying up all night with a racing mind has its benefits. I’ve sorted things out, and I know what my next step has to be.

Rafe is back to his normal self, no trace of the vulnerable boy from last night. Hypatia takes the whole I-was-a-spy-all-along thing in stride, and she seems to be feeling much better.

She’s entranced by the television, and she regales me with awed descriptions of various cartoons and the wonders of the Weather Channel. I try not to let my eyes linger on the scar that circles her delicate neck. Or the small fangs that she’s now not bothering to hide from me when she smiles wide.

“Have you seen this one before, Ada?” she asks me excitedly about some high school drama. “It appears to be some kind of dystopia where everyone is cosmetically modified, and they need to fight to the death to be crowned queen of the kingdom of Homecoming.”