Chapter 18 · The Dead Head Walks

Karl won't look at me.

We're sitting in some ratty motel two towns over, walls the color of old cigarette smoke, and he's been staring at the carpet for twenty minutes. His shoulders are locked up tight. The bond hums under my ribs, restless and scratchy, like it knows he's about to bolt again.

I'm done waiting.

"You shielded me," I say. "In the fire. You could've just grabbed the box and run."

He doesn't answer.

"Karl."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Ask questions? You saw my mother's name on that tag. You knew. And you didn't say a damn word."

His jaw works. Still won't look at me.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Seven days till the heir rite. Marcus said that. What does that mean? What happens in seven days?"

"Nothing that concerns you."

"Bullshit. Everything about this concerns me. I've got your mark eating into my shoulder, I've got hunters and suits and your brother all gunning for me, and you—" I stop. Breathe. "You keep lying."

That gets him. His head snaps up, eyes flashing red for half a second before he shuts it down. "I never lied to you.