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Silence settles between us as we drop off the carts. That moment—the screams, the guttural growl of the demons feasting on his parents—must have been horrific. I debate whether I should say anything at all to acknowledge his loss. I hate when people say I’m sorry. When everyone says it, it loses its meaning. So rather than offer my condolences as we head to Carver’s home, I give him the only thing that feels right.

Mutual understanding.

“My parents died when I was young too.”

Bellamy clears his throat. “Do you mind if I ask how?”

There’s where our similarities end. Bellamy distinctly recalls his parents’ deaths, and I . . . have no memory of mine. “I don’t remember.” That digs at me more than usual. Why can’t I fucking remember what is probably the most traumatic event in my life? While I do my best to block it out, I remember what Rodderick did from time to time. If I can recall that, why not what happened to my parents? It doesn’t make any sense.

I take a right, heading to the back of Carver’s house. Bellamy’s steps slow. I look at him over my shoulder but don’t question it. It’s not like I want his company. The familiar calls of a mourning dove carry me to the door. Carver’s wards press against me, tingling over my skin. While they let me in, I know they still don’t quite trust me, which means that Carver doesn’t, either.

I find the mage in question waiting for me, the dull lighting in the basement casting him in amber. For a moment, I pause, and we look at one another. His expression is unreadable, and he has his hands shoved into his joggers, sleep shirt molded to his strong form. His face still has lines on it from sleeping.

“What exactly do you think I’ll do?” I ask, striding past him. “I know I’m a Feral, but do you really think I’d jeopardize my job to steal from a Foundation? Even I’m not that stupid.”

One word, and Carver could probably have me kicked out of the school. Sure, he and Tweed don’t get along, but Foundation sticks with Foundation.

Carver doesn’t answer me. He rarely does this early in the morning. He simply watches me grab the cart, but when I pull it toward the door, his head whips to the side, eyes narrowing on the vampire who ducks inside.

“Why does he get to come in without your wards threatening him?”

Bellamy grins, holding Carver’s glare. “Because I live here.”

He—oh. I guess that makes sense, with them being bonded and Drake living here too. My gaze drifts to the exposed ceiling. The thick floor joists are decorated with webs from the spiders who’ve made this room their home. Rowan and Drake are up there somewhere. Do they know when I’m here?

“What I don’t understand, though”—Bellamy’s voice, deep and curious, pulls me back to the two men in front of me— “is why Carver wakes up every morning to come down here and wait for you like a good little puppy.”

“Because he’s scared the Feral is going to steal something,” I mutter. “You know how you Foundations get.”

Bellamy shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. Carver's a Feral Blood too.”

The words slap me across the face. He is? I look at my tutor, but he’s glaring at the vampire, who is standing still as stone. I’ve experienced his mindcraft enough to recognize when he’s using it. Bellamy grunts, panting through whatever Carver is doing to him, his smile absolutely delighted despite clearly being in pain.

Blood beads to the surface of Carver’s skin. Ah, so Bellamy’s affinity is bloodcraft. The two of them battle one another, Carver looking like a sentinel, Bellamy more than a little unhinged. Neither of them relent as I carry the bin of towels to my cart, dumping the contents into it before returning to the laundry room.

I don’t understand why they’re fighting, nor do I want to.

“Right, well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone.”

The two of them are still locked in a battle of wills when I leave, and while part of me wishes Bellamy would follow so I can learn more about the chief justice, I’m relieved when he stays behind.

His presence is unnerving, and I especially don’t like the way my veins practically sing when he’s around. I’ve heard of people becoming obsessed with vampire bites, but I never thought I’d become one of them. I have to figure out how to gather the intel without letting Bellamy drink from me again.

I can fulfill the blood bargain without offering him a vein. Trouble is, my body is ready to let him have another taste, but I can resist. I have to.

A tornado of white surrounds me. Fat snowflakes pelt my skin as the air turns my blood to ice. The beautiful crimson poppies sway violently as the blizzard intensifies. Dread slithers up my ankles, climbs up my legs, twisting round and round until it’s coiled around my torso. A twinge in my chest steals my breath.

Warning pricks against the back of my neck, and slowly, I turn, unease clamping tighter around me and squeezing my insides.

All at once, the winds stop, the snow letting up until tiny specks float around. It should be a relief, a welcome reprieve as I take in my beautiful field of red flowers. But the crimson poppy next to me starts to bleed.

One drop.

Two.

Then, all at once, color leeches from the flowers.

Déjà vu rolls over me. I’ve been here before.