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The police give us the okay to leave, and Noah and I head into the balmy night. Once we’re in the car, my anxiety grows. I twist my hands around my purse strap, feeling like I’m about to have a panic attack.

“Talk to me,” Noah urges. “Tell me what’s going on in your head right now.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I admit. “It feels like I should apologize, but I can’t figure out why.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. If anyone should apologize, it’s me. I’m the one who left you there.” We stop for a red light, and he looks over at me. “Are you okay? Like actually?”

“I probably should have taken the self-defense training a little more seriously.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know if I’m okay. I’m relieved Ethan’s dead. I’m ashamed he bit me. I’m a little?—”

“Ashamed?” Noah says incredulously, cutting me off. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know, but I feel…” I don’t know how to put it into words. “I feel tainted, just like I did the first time he attacked me.”

Wordlessly, Noah reaches for my hand. He’s wrestling with guilt—I can feel it. But I don’t blame him. He left me with two hunters and a bunch of security guards. I should have been safe.

I clasp his hand tightly, not letting go until we’re back at the hotel.

When we walk into the room, it’s freaking hot again.

“Why do they keep turning it up?” I moan, heading over to the thermostat and glaring at it.

“I think it’s broken,” Noah says. “I’ll ask someone to come look at it tomorrow.”

Just like earlier, I feel an internal dam breaking—but this time, it’s not anger that flows out.

I sink into a chair by the table and drop my head in my hands, unable to hold back frustrated tears. Noah kneels in front of me, looking helpless. His jaw works like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what.

“It’s been a really bad day,” I say, like my tears need some explanation.

“I know.”

“And it’s really hot in here.”

He offers me a sad smile. “It is.”

“I’m going to get ready for bed.”

Noah rises, stepping aside so I can stand up. I close myself in the bathroom, focusing on my routine and trying to feel normal. I strip off my shirt and throw it in the trash, not wanting to see it ever again, and then pull my hair back into a ponytail.

As I wash my face, I study my neck. The bite is already healed. All traces of Ethan are gone.

But I still feel him.

I turn from the mirror and yank on the shower handle, feeling the need to wash off properly. Maybe I can clean away this feeling.

Shuddering when I step under the scalding spray, I drop the temperature and get to work. Using a washcloth and hotel soap, I scrub every inch of my skin until it’s pink and angry.

I don’t realize I’m crying until I’m kneeling in the spray, trying to catch my breath.

He’s dead, I remind myself. Ethan can never touch me again. I picture him lying on the break room floor, motionless.

But then I think of his wild eyes and how terrified I was.

My thoughts grow darker and more morbid the longer I stay here. I’m spiraling, reliving the horror of the night over and over. The whole ordeal must have happened quickly, but it feels like it lasted an eternity.