Chapter 2

Only Victor called me that. My father called me Ella — like a stranger's name.

Victor said it differently. "Ellie" came from somewhere deep in his throat. Low. Short.

One of the men decided to push back. "Who the hell do you think you—"

Victor turned.

The headlights caught his face. Rain dripped from his jaw. The man's hand froze in midair. His eyes went wide.

"M-Moretti... Mr. Moretti..." The man's voice collapsed from threat to trembling. "I'm sorry, sir, we didn't do anything, please—"

Victor wasn't listening. He was looking at me.

"Get in the car."

I got in. The man kept apologizing behind us, one word after another. Victor shut the door. The engine swallowed everything else.

Silence inside the car.

The heat was on full. I was still cold. My wet dress clung to my skin. Water ran from my hair down my neck and into my collar. I held Victor's coat. It smelled of blood — iron and rain.

"Did my father send you?" I asked.

No answer.

"Where is he? Still at the party?"

Victor reached into the side pocket and tossed a pack of tissues onto my lap. Casual. Almost rough.

"Dry off," he said. "You'll get sick."

Not concern. A command.

I pulled out a tissue and started on my face. It soaked through immediately, falling apart in my fingers.

Then I saw his arm.

His right sleeve had been sliced open — wrist to elbow. The edges of the tear were dark red. Blood ran down his forearm and dripped onto the steering wheel. Onto his trousers.

"You're bleeding," I said.

He didn't look. Just kept his eyes on the road. The wipers swept back and forth. "Yeah."

"Shouldn't you do something?"

"Help me clean it," he said. Simple as that.

I hesitated. Then I pulled a few clean tissues and leaned across to press them against his arm.

The moment the tissue touched his skin, his muscle tensed. He didn't pull away.

I started at the elbow. The blood was warm, thinned by rain, dripping from his fingers. I worked upward. The tissues soaked through fast.

Then my fingers touched skin.

His sleeve was torn all the way up. The tissue slipped. My fingertips pressed against his arm — bare skin, hard and burning hot, like heated stone.

His wet shirt was still plastered to his shoulder. The fabric was thin. The lines of his body were very clear.

My face went warm. My heart rate jumped. Not from the heat.

I kept going — across his upper arm, down the inner side. The muscle there was sharper. A vein traced faintly beneath the surface. My fingers slipped lower, further in—

"Ellie." His hand covered mine. "It's dry there."

I stopped.

Two seconds passed before I understood. My fingers were on the inside of his arm, inches from his chest. The tissue was gone. Just my hand — bare, cold — against his skin.