Chapter 18 · The Second Name

"Don't move." Marco's hand closed around my wrist in the dark, tight enough that I felt my pulse against his palm before I felt anything else. The cold room had no windows. No emergency strip, nothing. Just black, and the compressors ticking down to silence like the whole freezer was holding its breath with us.

"Let go of me." I yanked, and he didn't let go. If anything his grip moved an inch higher, past my wrist bone, thumb pressed flat against the vein like he was counting something there instead of just holding on.

"There's a step behind you. Six inches, maybe less. You go down, you crack your skull on a steel shelf, and I'm the last person who touched you." His voice came low, right against my ear, close enough that I felt the heat of his breath cut through the cold.

"So no. Not letting go." The bruise under my collar — his fingers, from an hour and a lifetime ago — throbbed where the freezing air hit it straight through the fabric. I hadn't noticed it in the light.