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My first, violent instinct is to shove him away and call Adrian and warn him to keep driving past that fucking electronics store and never come back. Victor knows it, though, and he presses his full Hunter’s strength against me, pinning me to the wall.

“How do you know?” I ask into his skin.

He hesitates. I feel that hesitation, feel all his muscles going still, and I have one sudden, clarifying thought:

He’s keeping something from me.

“Victor,” I snarl, wrenching away. “How do you know?”

He cups my face, his eyes searching mine, and his expression is so tender and mournful that I go still. I don’t want to get away from him.

“I went to Nicholas Wolrath’s house,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine. When he kisses my cheek, I breathe out, hating that it’s a ruse, hating that I like it anyway. “I—I can explain why, but not here.”

I bunch his shirt up in my hand, anger and confusion and frustration pulsing through my veins. How the fuck did he even know where Nicholas Wolrath lives?

“There were cops everywhere.” He kisses me again, lower this time, along my jawline. Down my throat. I squeeze his shirt harder, trying to will myself not to melt into it the way I want to. “I could hear them talking. You know how we are.”

We. Hunters. There’s still a little glimmering moment where I feel like he means you and me.

“Yeah, you killed two of his party guests,” I mutter, dropping my head back as his mouth finds my pulse. The wall of the next building over rises up above me, russet brick covered with dead ivy vines.

“That doesn’t matter,” Victor breathes. “What matters is that the cops are coming to the Clifwell Inn tonight to arrest a suspect. They called him a radical element.”

Victor doesn’t quite kiss me, although his lips are millimeters from my lips, his breath warm and shuddery and nervous. My heart pounds. Him. There’s no denying that they’re coming after Adrian.

“That’s your fault, you know that?” I say.

“Yes.” Victor brushes a kiss against my cheek, soft and hesitant. I want to tell him to stop kissing me. I don’t want his kisses to be a ruse.

“I have to warn him.”

“No.” Victor pulls away and gazes down at me, his hair hanging into his eyes, his lips damp. He slides his hand along the side of my neck, holding me gently in place. “I know a better way to make it right.”

“Make it right?” I sputter. Too loudly. “By getting him arr⁠—”

Victor kisses me on the mouth.

I know he’s trying to shut me up. I know he’s trying to keep up a facade. But god, there’s real intention behind his kiss. It’s not like it was at the motel, when he was devouring me. This kiss is slow and gentle, almost like⁠—

Almost like he’s apologizing.

“Come with me,” he murmurs against my lips. “I don’t want you at the inn when they come for your friend.”

“Adrian,” I say. “His name’s Adrian. And he’s not there right now. I can tell him to stay away.”

“No,” Victor says. “Let them arrest him tonight. You just can’t be there.”

I vaguely understand where Victor is coming from, as much as I don’t want to admit it. Adrian isn’t guilty of murder. Adrian actually has a fucking alibi, since he was already checked into the Clifwell Inn when the murders happened. Still, I have no doubt they’ll keep him locked up as long as they can.

I, however, do not have the luxury of an alibi.

“How exactly do you plan to make it right?” I ask softly.

“Come with me,” Victor says. “We’ll get your things from the inn. Then we’ll drive, and I’ll explain.”

“Drive?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Drive where?”

“Nowhere,” Victor says. “I’ll drive. We can talk, make a plan. I⁠—”