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Ophelia meets my eye, clearly skeptical, and I tighten my hold on her.

“Why?” I ask.

“I can certainly try to deliver it to her myself, but I thought it may be better received from someone she trusts.”

It’s not an answer, or at least not a complete one, but I sincerely doubt he’s going to offer more about why he’d want to help bring all this information to light, or how he uncovered it in the first place.

Ophelia takes it from him, albeit reluctantly, like she’s handling something toxic and contaminated. I don’t miss the way he skims his fingers along hers as he hands it over, and can do nothing to stop the warning that rumbles in the back of my throat until he pulls away.

Philippe only smirks at me.

We stay there for a few moments more in a tense, stony standoff. At least until Ophelia shifts a little beside me.

“We’ve got eyes on us.”

She jerks her chin back toward the cemetery, where the young female aide peers in our direction. She’s standing mostly away from the chaos around her. Handcuffed, but not drawing as much attention from the authorities as Derham, Haverstad or the aide who pulled the gun.

A brief, silent look passes between Philippe and the young woman.

I don’t particularly like that look, though I can at least hazard a guess at what’s behind it.

Philippe had to have gotten all that information from somewhere, and as the woman glances pointedly away, I’d be willing to bet I know where.

“You were right, brother,” Philippe says, that smirk of his still firmly in place. “We live in a different world than the one we were born into, and perhaps it’s time we act like it.”

Neither Ophelia nor I feel the need to give reply, though that doesn’t seem to phase Philippe.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” he says, melting back into the darkness he came from.

It’s entirely too much for the ragged threads of my reason and logic to parse through right now. Everything that happened and what Philippe’s involvement means, where we go from here and what happens next.

So I stop trying. I hold Ophelia closer and lean into her warmth.

The rest of it can wait.

Serra snorts from where she’s stayed back and out of the fray. “Gods, what a fucking tool. Now how about we get the hell out of here?”

Ophelia and I follow her down the darkened streets to where she parked her car. I keep my arm on Ophelia the entire time. I know full well she’s capable of holding herself up, but letting her go feels impossible.

Not when, with each passing heartbeat, those few moments from the graveyard keep playing themselves on repeat in my mind.

The flash of silver bullets and the raised barrel of a gun. Ophelia, heedless of her own safety, charging into me to keep me from harm. With each looped memory, I want to drag her closer, to keep her near and convince myself she’s real, here, safe.

That terrible, clawing need keeps me company all the way back to my home, where Serra lets us out and departs. It growssharper and more demanding as we walk up the drive and to the front door. It nearly chokes the breath out of me as I let us inside, then draw Ophelia into my arms in a fierce embrace.

Ophelia holds me just as fiercely. As she does, I feel her muscles tremble, hear the rasp of her breath in a tight, ragged inhale.

My heart cracks in my chest when I pull back to meet her gaze.

There are tears in her eyes.

All of it—all those roiling emotions, everything that happened tonight—spikes sharp and jagged at the sight of those tears.

“What did you think you would accomplish, jumping in front of that bullet meant for me? What were you thinking, Ophelia?”

I’m caught off-guard by the depth of my fear. I want to talk some sense into her, hold her to me and never let her go, kiss her long and deep and desperate until she understands how foolish it was to put herself in danger on my behalf.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”