He pulled back.

Unable to keep her hand on his back as he stepped away, she slid it to his chest, lingering under his shirt. Her fingers traced upward to his heart.

Neither of them spoke or moved for several moments. Leslie’s pulse had slowed back to normal. Her passion had abated. His guilt, on the other hand, wasn't leaving so quickly. There was nothing he could say to undo where they were, but he couldn't move forward either. His plan to be near her as a friend was failing horribly. He said, "We should go."

She nodded, but her fingers continued to trace lines on his skin.

"You have a lot of scars," she said, not asking but leaving the comment hanging there for him to answer or not.

Answering that implied question was something he didn't do, not when his king had been too young to realize that it was an awful question, not when he took any of the fey to his bed, not when his new queen had first seen him at guards' practice and looked at him with tears in her eyes. But Leslie had scars of her own, and he knew what had caused hers.

He kissed her eyelids carefully and told her, "It was a very long time ago."

Her hand stilled where it rested over his heart. If she thought anything of his erratic heartbeat, she didn't say.

Finally she asked, "Was it an accident?"

"No. It was very much on purpose." He brought her free hand up to the scar on his cheek. "None of these were accidental."

"I'm sorry." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. Her gentleness was even more dangerous than her passion had been.

If he thought on it, he could remember the pain as vividly as when it had happened. The memory of the pain cleared his head, helped him focus on where he was, and what he needed to be like for Leslie: strong, careful, a friend. He said, "I survived. Isn't that what matters? Surviving?"

She looked away. "I hope so."

"Do you think less of me?"

Her expression was aghast. "No. Gods no."

"Some would."

"They're wrong. Whoever hurt you …" She shook her head, her look murderous now. "I hope they suffered for it."

"They did not." He looked away then. If she knew how badly they'd broken him, would she pity him? Would she think him less a man for not being strong enough to escape them? He had, afterward. At the time he would've happily become a shade—faded rather than endure another moment of that pain, those memories. It would've been easier to give up, to end. Instead the last Summer King had found him, taken him into the Summer Court, and given him the space to recover his pride, to rebuild his mind.

"It's awful to think they're out there somewhere." She looked past him to the darkened streets, looking for faces in the shadows as he'd seen her do so many nights when he'd walked invisibly at her side. "I never know. I don't remember some of their faces … I was drugged when they … you know."

"Raped," he said gently. "And yes, I know exactly."

Her hand traced over one of his scars again, more hesitantly this time. The stunned look on her face confirmed that she understood. "You?"

He nodded. "It was forever ago."

Her eyes welled with tears. "Does it ever go away? The panic?"

And she looked at him with such hope he wished that fey could lie. He couldn't. He said, "It gets better. Some days, some years, it's almost gone."

"That's something, right?"

"It's almost everything some days." He kissed her gently, just a brush of lips, not seeking passion but offering comfort. "And sometimes you meet someone who doesn't see you any differently if you tell them. That is everything."

Silently she rested her face against his chest, and he held her and admitted the truth to himself: For this mortal I would disobey my queen, abandon my king, the court that has protected me all these years. All of it. If he took her into his arms, he would keep her. He wouldn't let her suffer the way the other mortals had when he'd left them. He would keep her, with his court's permission or without it. Irial wouldn't take her, and Keenan wouldn't stand between them.

Leslie woke in the middle of the night to see Niall lying next to her, feverish, his skin damp with a sheen of sweat. He wasn't thrashing; he was perfectly still. His chest didn't appear to be moving at all.

She grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "Niall?"

He blinked at her, but it didn't take long for him to sit upright and look around. "Are you injured? Is someone here?"

"No." The skin under her hand was hot to the touch, far hotter than seemed possible. "You're sick, Niall. Stay here."

She went to the bathroom and grabbed a hand towel. After soaking it with cold water, she came back. Niall had closed his eyes and was lying back on Seth's enormous bed. If he hadn't looked like he was near passing out, it would have been a lovely sight to see. She knelt on the bed and wiped his face and chest with the icy cloth. He didn't react at all. His eyes stayed closed. His heartbeat thudded rapidly enough that she could see the pulse in his throat.

"Do you think you can walk to the front room? I can call a taxi," she murmured, glancing around the room to find her cell phone.

"Taxi to go where?"

"To the hospital." The wet cloth was already warm to the touch, and his body wasn't any cooler.

"No. We're not going there. Stay here or go to the loft." He opened his eyes and looked at her. There was no mistaking that look for anything remotely reasonable.

She sighed but kept her voice gentle as she said, "Sweetie, you're sick. Do you know what's wrong?"

"Allergic."

"To what? Do you have one of those pens for a shot?" She picked up his shirt from the floor and looked in the front pocket. There wasn't anything. She dropped it. Where else? There was nothing on the bedside tables. She reached down and felt inside the pockets of his jeans—which were still on him.

Niall grabbed her hand. "I did not bring you here to have sex, and I feel far from well enough to do so, but" — he pulled her forward until she was sprawled on his chest— "that doesn't mean I'm immune to your touch."

Using one hand on the wall to steady himself, he stood. "Help me get outside. I need air. Clear my head before I say something I can't."

"Something you can’t?" She came to stand beside him, though, offering him her support. He draped an arm over her shoulders; she put her arm around his waist.

Mostly talking to herself, Leslie said, "Seth. Ash. Everyone's keeping secrets." She looked up at Niall. "I ought to keep asking you questions until I get a few answers out of somebody."

She concentrated on getting him through the train and to the door. He hissed when he reached a hand out and brushed the door. They both stumbled when he recoiled.

"Are you okay?"

"No," he said. "Not so much. But I will be."

Not knowing what to say or do, Leslie looked around. She saw one of Seth's wooden chairs. "Come on," she said.

Niall leaned heavily on her as she dragged the chair far away from the train into the shadows of the yard. It was awkward, but she had plenty of practice maneuvering her drunken father into his room. Niall sat in the chair. She had just stepped away from him when Keenan appeared. He seemed to materialize out of the shadowed lot. He hadn't been anywhere in sight, and then suddenly he was in front of them—and angry.

"What were you thinking?" Keenan asked.

Niall didn't reply.

Leslie tensed, feeling an urge to run when he approached. She wasn't sure where he'd come from or why he was here. She couldn't wonder how he'd arrived so unexpectedly or why she felt so disquieted by his presence. All she knew was that he frightened her and she wanted him gone.

"I didn't know he had an allergy to" — Leslie glanced at Niall—"what are you allergic to?"