Page 72 of The Witch They Fear

"You'll be in a car. Alone. With Mr. Smolder-by-the-Soap-Display. For an hour."

I bite back a smile. "I'll survive."

"Will he?"

Now I can’t help but laugh.

Nellie searches my face for another second, then pulls me into a hug—tight, fierce, the kind that says everything her mouth is too full of jokes to say. I hold on longer than I mean to. She smells like her mom's shop—lavender and old paper and warmth.

Endless warmth.

"Text me when you get back," she says into my shoulder. "On the stupid monitored laptop. I don't care. Just let me know."

"I will."

She lets go. Steps back. Bumps my shoulder one last time.

"Be careful, Cal."

"Always."

"Liar."

I grin. It's watery but it's real. I grab my bag and walk out before the tears can win.

Aamon is waiting on the sidewalk. The Aston Martin is running, engine purring low in the late afternoon light. He's standing between me and the passenger door with his hands at his sides and an expression that tells me he heard every word through that window.

The summoning anchor. The blood. All of it.

I reach for the door handle. His hand lands on the roof of the car, blocking it. Not aggressively. Just—present.

"Tell me," he says.

"You heard everything."

"I want you to tell me yourself."

I stare at him. "Are you serious right now? We need to go—"

"We will. After you ask me."

"Ask you what?"

"For help." His eyes hold mine. Steady. Unyielding. The same hazel that talked me down from a spiral on this porch not even thirty minutes ago, except now there's something behind them that looks less like patience and more like a man drawing a line in the dirt. "You found a threat on your door and you didn't come to me. You took someone else's blood and you didn't come to me. You burned yourself instead of letting me help you. You've been handling everything alone because you've decided that's the only option, and I let you because I thought you needed the space." His jaw tightens. "I'm done giving you space on this."

My throat is tight. The neon sign flickers behind me. Somewhere down the street, the bar music plays. And Aamon is standing three feet away asking me to do the one thing I've been avoiding since I walked out of that facility—admit that I can't do this by myself.

"You know, the whole desperate-to-be-needed thing isn't a great look on a hundreds-year-old vampire."

He doesn't blink. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't take the bait. Just stands there with his hand on the car roof and those steady hazel eyes and waits.

Dammit.

“Can you move?” I ask.

He doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?”