“I know.” Kate’s hand threaded through his, and for an instant he was curled against the bottom of a bathtub, fever tearing over his skin with Kate’s grip and her voice his only anchors.

I’m not letting go.

Her grip tightened.

“Look at me,” she said, and he dragged his head up. Her face was inches from his own, her eyes midnight blue, save for the violent silver crack.

“I know it hurts,” she said. “So make it worth the pain.”

“How?”

“By not letting go,” she said softly. “By holding on, to anger, or hope, or whatever it is that keeps you fighting.”

You, he thought.

And for once, a word felt simple, because Kate was the one who kept him fighting, who looked at him and saw him, and saw through him at the same time, and who never let go.

He didn’t decide to kiss her. One second her mouth was an inch from his, and the next, his lips were on hers, and the next, she was kissing him back, and the next, they were a tangle of limbs, and the next, Kate was on top of him, pressing him down into the sheets.

August had felt fear and pain, the ache of hunger and the steady calm after taking a soul, but he’d never felt anything like this. He’d lost himself before in his music, fallen into the notes, the world dissolving briefly, and even that was not like this. For once there was no Leo in his head, no Ilsa or Soro, just the warmth of Kate’s skin and the memory of stardust and open fields, of bleachers and black-and-white cats and apples in the woods, of tally marks and music, of running and burning, and the desperate, hopeless desire to feel human.

And then her mouth was on his again, and the version of himself, the one he tried so hard to drown, came gasping up for air.

For a moment, everything was simple.

Kate forgot the sight of the soldier in the cell and the ticking time bomb in her head, and the violent voice inside her was drowned out by August—by his cool skin and the music of his body against hers. The room seemed to dance with sudden light, a soft and lovely red— Kate gasped, lurching backward as she realized the light was coming from her. August saw it too and half-stumbled, half-fell back off the bed, landing amid a pile of books.

She sagged against the headboard, breathless, the first washes of red light already fading back beneath her skin. She stared at August.

And then, she started to laugh.

It rose up suddenly, like madness, and left her close to tears, and August looked at her, flushed with embarrassment, as if she were laughing at him or at them or at this instead of at everything, at the absurdity of their lives and the fact that nothing would ever be easy, or simple, or normal.

She shook her head, one hand pressed to her mouth until the laughter died enough that she could hear August telling her he was sorry.

“Why? Did you know that would happen?”

August stared at her, aghast. “Did I know that kissing you would bring your soul to surface? That—that—would have the same effect as pain or music? No, I must have missed that lesson.”

She stared at him, agape. “August, was that sarcasm?”

He shrugged, toppling another short stack of books somewhere behind him. Kate shifted back, making room. “Come here.”

He looked miserable. “I think it’s better if I stay down here.”

“I’ll try to keep my hands off you,” she said dryly. “Come on.”

He rose awkwardly out of the heap, running a hand through his hair, the color still high in his face as he picked his way toward her. August lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, shooting her a wary look, as if he were afraid of her, or thought she should be afraid of him, but Kate only stretched against the far side, and when he finally sank down beside her, she rolled toward him and he rolled toward her.

His eyes drifted closed, and she studied the dark lashes, the hollows in his cheeks, the short black lines around his wrist. Quiet settled over them, and she wanted to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the soldier in the cell.

And then she admitted something, a confession so low she thought—hoped—August wouldn’t hear, two words she’d vowed never to say aloud in a world filled with monsters.

“I’m scared.”

August stayed with Kate until she fell asleep.

He didn’t reach out, didn’t take her hand, didn’t trust himself to touch her again, not after the . . . He flushed at the thought of it. If Kate hadn’t noticed the red light, if his mouth had lingered on hers any longer, if his hands had been pressed to skin instead of cloth— It could have been so much worse.

Midnight came, marked only by the burn of a new tally on his skin.

One hundred and eighty-six days without falling.

The marks mean nothing, chided Leo. You have already let go.

But his brother was wrong. Even when August thought he wanted to let go, some part of him had held on, and he had the marks to prove it.

A soft weight landed on the bed. Allegro. The cat shot August a wary look, but didn’t flee, only curled up near his feet, green eyes vanishing behind his tail, and that felt as much a victory as the latest tally. August closed his eyes, and let the low static of the cat’s purr fold over him. . . .

The sudden staccato of a cough jolted August awake.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but it was almost dawn, and the cough came again, the sound ricocheting through his head.