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I follow him down the hall, my irritation still perfectly intact despite the awkwardness trying to upstage it. “It’s not good enough to study.”

“The sample is perfectly adequate.” He walks past me toward the living room and stands with his back to me, his eyes on the night beyond my windows.

“The sample is bullshit.” I find it easier to tell him off now that he’s not looking at me. “And you need to talk to me. What did you and Juno?—”

His palm lands on my mouth so quickly that I shriek, the sound muffled against his warm skin.

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses, his dark eyes eating me up.

I’m stunned to silence, my mouth going dry. Fight or flight kicks in, and I push away from him. He lets me go—I hadn’t even realized he’d had his other arm wrapped around me—and I stumble back against the fireplace.

I steady myself and glare up at him, my gaze lingering on the gashes in his cheek. They seem to be oozing something other than blood. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Don’t play the fool.” He says it dismissively, arrogance coating him like honey.

“The sample is useless. It’s not … It’s not human,” I say somewhat stupidly.

The corner of his lips quirk slightly. “No, it’s not. That’s the point.”

“It’s degraded. I need another sample. Several vials.”

“You’ll have one vial. Next week.”

“I need afreshone.” I look pointedly at his pale arm, the veins nice and defined. I’m no phlebotomist, but I’m certain I could tap one of those easily.

“You’ll have a sample next week.” He’s a stony-eyed monster with a repetition problem.

I bite back my temper as best I can. Juno told me to work with him. I have to at least try. “Your face is a mess. Come with me.” I turn and stomp to my room and unstack some boxes until I come to my medical supplies.

“Already invited to your bed?” He leans against the doorframe. “Faster than I’d thought, though not unwelcome.”

“Get over yourself.” I grab what I need and jerk my chin toward the bathroom. “In there.”

“I don’t need your help.” He seems amused, one dark eyebrow lifting slightly.

“I didn’t ask.” I point. “Go.”

He stares at me, his gaze unreadable. “What is this? Trying to get on my good side?”

“From what I can tell, you don’t have one,” I say brightly. “So no fear of that happening.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he finally moves, slinking into my bathroom and waiting by the sink.

I follow and lay out my alcohol, gauze, and swabs on the vanity, then pull on my gloves. “What happened?” I ask and grab a swab.

“Nothing important.” He keeps his gaze on me.

“Can you sit?” I point to the closed toilet. “You’re too tall for this to—okay, thank you.” He sits with his legs open, forcing me to stand between them to treat him. I could swear there’s the slightest self-satisfied smirk on his lips, and I have to remind myself that I’m supposed to help him, not harm him. Hippocratic Oath and all that.

“Looks like it hurts.” I touch one of the oozing wounds with my swab.

He grabs my wrist so quickly I yelp. He looks up at me, the darkness of his eyes giving way to more hues at this angle. Blues of the sea, the sky, the deepest water in the coldest ocean. “You’re clever. I’ll give you that. But you aren’t getting a sample from me this way.”

Fuck. “I’m only trying to treat you,” I lie.

He tightens his grip on my wrist until I drop the swab. When he releases me, he says, “Continue.”

I should smack the smug right off his face, but it looks like someone already tried it. And I’m not a fighter, not with fists and weapons. I have to do my warfare in different ways, ones that rely more on smarts than strength. I douse some gauze with alcohol and dab it along the scratches. He doesn’t so much as blink.