“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He frowned, whatever he’d been about to say lost. “I hurt you.”

“No.” I shook my head, denying the truth because it no longer mattered.

“You’re bleeding.” He reached up with one hand and touched my hip, just above the waistband of my snug gray shorts. His fingers were smeared with blood.

I saw four short, deep scratches on one hip, and a matching set on the other side. “It’s fine.” I crossed the room to my dresser and snatched a tissue, dabbing at the new marks to avoid his eyes. “You’re stil mad at me,” I said, fully expecting him to deny it.

“Yes.” His response caught me so off guard I gripped the edge of the dresser for balance. In the mirror, Marc rubbed his forehead, momentarily blocking his eyes from view as he spoke, and my heart threatened to stop beating. “I’m so mad I can barely stand to look at you.”

My hand clenched the tissue, and my pulse raged. “So what was that?” I spun around, gesturing angrily at the wall, still damp with my sweat. “A grudge fuck? One more for the road?”

His hand fell, and his eyes found mine again, searing my soul like a branding iron. “Do you know how many cats I’ve executed for doing what you’ve done? Did you think I took those assignments just because your father told me to?”

Unsure how to answer, I said nothing, crossing the room to the end of my bed, where I leaned against the bedpost for support.

“I believe the death sentence is warranted for creating a stray. No one should get away with stealing a person’s humanity. If Jose wasn’t already dead, I would have killed him myself, not just for what he did to my mother, but for what he did to me. For what he turned me into.”

“Marc, I—”

“Shut up.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I know you didn’t mean to infect him, and I know you can’t take it back, so save your breath.” He sighed and stood slowly. “I know I don’t have any right to be pissed at you, but I can’t help the way I feel. Part of me wants to rip this Andrew’s fingers off one by one, just because they’ve touched you.”

“Marc—”

“But another part of me wants to congratulate him for having escaped death-by-Faythe.” His voice grew cold, his words clipped in bitter anger.

“I swear, any man who walks away from you without limping is a lucky man. Just ask Ryan. Or Eric and Miguel.”

Stunned, I sank onto the end of my mattress, leaning against the bedpost. That was a low blow. I’d had to bite through Eric’s throat to free myself and Abby, and I’d only defended myself from Miguel. And coming from Marc, that statement was more than a little hypocritical. He’d dished out his own serving of justice to Miguel.

And since he was neither dead nor limping, Ryan had little reason to complain about his treatment at my hands.

“Is that what you want to do?” I asked, my hand tightening around the column of wood as I watched the specks of gold glitter in Marc’s eyes. “You want to walk away from me?”

“Yeah.”

I recoiled as if he’d slapped me, and tears blurred my vision. I should have known better than to ask a question I didn’t want answered.

“I’m not an idiot, Faythe.” Marc stood, running one hand through his curls. “I know the best thing I could ever do for myself would be to walk out of your room right now and keep going until I get to Mexico. But I can’t do that. I couldn’t do it five years ago, and I can’t do it now. And I don’t know why.”

My brain barely registered the blur of movement as he whirled around and kicked my desk chair across the room and into the dresser. I jumped, the crash echoing in my head. The chair fell to the floor, miraculously unbroken. Marc turned to face me, sagging against my desk.

“You never admit that you feel anything for me in front of anyone else. Hell, you’re only here because you made a promise to your father. If you hadn’t, you’d be back at school by now, with Andrew, or some other poor guy too clueless to realize how dangerous you are until it’s too late.

“Yet in spite of all that, even though I know you won’t stay here a day longer than the time you owe Greg— assuming the council doesn’t lock you up—I can’t just walk away. And I hate myself for it.” Whirling, he slammed his fist against the door, and I jumped again as it rattled in its frame. “You make me hate myself, for not being man enough to say I’ve had it and tell you to go to hell.”

Speechless, I stared at him, grasping desperately for something to say to make it al better. To erase what he’d said, and take back what I’d done. To accomplish the impossible.

“Say something, Faythe,” Marc ordered.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“Oh, now you have nothing to say.” He crossed my room in several huge strides and was in my face before I could even blink. Bending at the waist, he planted one fist on the mattress on either side of my hips, intentionally invading my personal space. “Tell me I’m wrong,” he demanded, pleading with his eyes for me to put him out of his misery. Or maybe he was daring me to do it. “Tell me I’m more than a convenient body to warm your bed and keep you entertained during your exile from the real world. Tell me you’re not just staying here because you have to.

Tell me we have a future together. Damn it, Faythe, tell me something!”