Zeth flits back out of the door once the arrangements for the morning are made—I let him go earlier because he needed the space, but now I go after him because I need something. I need to talk. He may not like it, but it’s going to happen. He’s not standing by the water, stewing, this time; he’s almost disappeared from view, headed off on an unseen path, by the time I’ve pulled on an old, damp-smelling red Parka I’ve found and hurried out after him.

He turns at the sound of the door, a serious grimace on his face when he sees me. “It’s cold, Sloane. It’s late. Go back inside.”

It is cold. It’s so cold I can’t feel the oxygen slipping in and out of my lungs as I jog toward him in the dark. There’s no arguing with the fact that it’s late, either, but that’s not reason enough to put off this conversation. “We need to talk.”

Zeth sighs, billows of steam pluming from his mouth in the frigid air. He turns and starts to walk again. “It doesn’t really need to be said, does it? I was wrong about Rebel. I was the bad guy. I haven’t hidden that from you, Sloane. I’ve told you from the beginning, that’s who I am.”

“Yeah,” I muse. “You’re the big bad wolf. I remember.” I don’t say it to mock him. I say it because it’s true, and I know it’s true. But it’s not the only truth. He has a warped view of himself, and we need to iron that out. “You did take advantage of a really crappy situation, I’ll admit, but you were trying to protect me. You’re not—you’re not evil, Zeth. You’ve done some very fucked-up things, but you’ve done so much since I’ve met you to help me and protect me, not to mention what you’ve done repeatedly for Lacey.”

His sister’s name sticks in my throat. Michael’s working on tracking down Charlie and Lace as we speak; until we find out where the hell she is and if she’s okay, even speaking her name is hard. Zeth winces, feeling it, too.

“I shouldn’t have interfered,” he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his thick jacket. “I should have stayed the hell away from you. You were better off when you were clueless, getting your work done. You should be dating that fucking Oliver guy right now, sharing inside jokes that no one else gets about surgery and bedpans and shit.”

Oliver? He thinks I should be with Oliver?

“Oh, come on, Sloane. Don’t look at me like that. You can’t tell me you don’t know that fucking preppy fuck is in love with you. He wants you bad.”

“I’ve—I’ve thought he’s maybe had feelings for me for a while, yes, but that’s not what the look’s for, Zeth. The look is because you think I’d rather be with him than you.”

Zeth makes an exasperated sound deep in the base of his throat. He walks faster, head locked straight ahead, not looking at me. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have fucked you in a dark hotel room. I’m sure he wouldn’t have screwed up your whole life.”

I can’t. I can’t listen to this anymore. I stop walking, throwing my hands up in the air. “Stop feeling fucking sorry for yourself, Zeth!”

That gets his attention. He freezes, spins around and paces back to me so that his face is in my face. “What?”

I jab him in the chest with my index finger to punctuate the words that come out of my mouth. “Stop. Feeling. Sorry. For. Your. Self.”

He doesn’t like the chest jabbing. He starts walking again. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself, Sloane. I’m feeling guilty.” He says the word as though the emotion is an unwelcome houseguest who’s shown up on his doorstep and refuses to leave.

“Well, you’re gonna have to suck it up because I don’t need you to feel guilty, Zeth. I’m not angry with you anymore. I’m in love with you. And you’re just scared because you know you feel the same way, too.” The words just race out of my mouth. I regret them as soon as they’re said, but it’s too late now—they’ve already escaped me. They’ve already been heard. Zeth halts in his tracks again—he never gets more than five feet from me. He narrows his eyes.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, is that it?” he murmurs. He stalks toward me, and for the first time in days a good dose of real fear swells in the pit of my stomach. His eyes are sharp, intent, and I realize he does look a little wolfish in the pale moonlight. Our surroundings don’t help matters, either. The woods that cloak the reservoir; the lightly falling snow; the irony of the fact that the over-sized Parka I’m wearing is bright crimson.

“I haven’t figured you out, no. But I know that I’m right about this.”

He pauses, close to me again, and I look up at him, trying not to freak out. He looks like he might want to drag me out onto the cracked, icy surface of the reservoir and throw me under. I reach up and carefully, very slowly, place my hand against the rough stubble of his cheek. Zeth’s eyes widen a little; he seems surprised by the action. We stare at one another. One, two, three whole seconds, and then it’s as though something breaks. I can practically see it happen. The tension releases its grip on his shoulders, and Zeth lowers his head, closing his eyes. My heart begins to beat again when he tilts his face toward me, into my palm.

“I don’t know how to feel what you’re telling me I feel,” he whispers. “I don’t know if you’re right.”

My eyes are pricking like crazy. This huge, strong, colossal entity of a man is crumbling before me and I’m suddenly breathless, terrified by the prospect. I ask him the one question that will change everything for us. It will dictate the rest of our lives, whether we spend them together or apart. I know it instinctively. “Do you want it, Zeth? Do you want to love me? Only you can release this unbearable grip you’ve got around your heart.”