Marcus is in the lounge room when I walk out of the bathroom. He keeps his eyes trained on the TV, not acknowledging me. I take a seat beside him and stare at the screen, disinterested in the baseball game but not sure of how to break the silence. Maybe he's offended that I ran into the bathroom after he put himself out there for me. I can't say I blame him.

"What was going on with you and Eli today?" I ask.

"Is that all you can say to me?"

"It's the only way I know to break the ice."

He quirks his eyebrows at me. "I can think of other ways."

Okay, so maybe he isn't upset. Butterflies erupt in my belly when I think of the way he kissed me, but the rest of me goes tense. I don't run this time. That can't be the only thing I'm good at. It's something that hit me in the bathroom as I stood there leaning against the door, hiding from Marcus. How ridiculous I was being.

It made sense to protect myself growing up with Sam. It made sense to push people away because it was the safest thing to do. Then I remembered how bravely Carson took the news that he might turn into a monster someday soon, and all my justifications felt trivial.

"You asked before what it'll take," I say, tripping over my words in a rush to get them out. "Truth is, I really don't know. I've never done any of this before."

"Not even kissing?"

My cheeks warm. "Yeah. Not even that."

"When you kissed me in the cafeteria the other day . . . that was your first time?"

I scowl at the memory of the disastrous kiss in the cafeteria. "You know it was. You said so yourself, remember?"

"I didn't actually know. Huh."

"Huh?"

"You're not the warmest person around, but I figured some poor sucker would have been taken in by your pretty blues by now."

I snort. "I've never let anyone get close enough for them to be taken in by anything. Sam made sure of that."

"Good old Sam," Marcus replies, yawning.

I stiffen when he stretches out on his side of the sofa and rests his head in my lap. He looks up at me. "Are you going to disappear into the bathroom again?"

"No." The urge is still there, lingering protectively, but there's something else. It coaxes my heart into a faster tempo and spikes my blood, intoxicating me.

Temptation. That's what this is.

I rest my hand on his head. His hair is softer than I imagined. I let my fingers sink into it while he lies there unmoving, his breathing even and his face empty of all emotion, except for those eyes of his. They burn like black fire.

"You're different from the day we met," I say. I never could have imagined there would come a day when I'd be sitting on this sofa with him, having an amicable conversation. Let alone having his head in my lap. Or stroking his hair.

"I don't know what I am anymore," Marcus says after a long beat.

Sudden fear seizes my chest. "Because of your seizure? Have you felt anything unusual lately—paranoia or anything bordering on insanity?"

"No, nothing like that. Well, maybe the insane part."

"I don't understand."

"Remember how I said I might've dreamt about Sam? And that I thought I saw Alec and Camille together, but that was probably a dream, too? Those weren't dreams. I think they were real, but . . . everything else isn't."

"What's everything else?" I ask.

"Growing up in that group home. Living with Raymond. Frankie. Everything I thought I knew about my past feels like a dream now."

I drop my hand from his head. If anyone else overheard this conversation, they'd think he was losing his mind. But I know he's not crazy. He knows Sam. "How can your whole life not be real?"

"Ask me anything about my childhood. Something specific."

I pause. "When did you learn to ride a bicycle?"

"I don't know."

His quick answer sends a shiver through me. "Name a teacher you had in tenth grade."

"I don't even remember the name of a single teacher I had last semester," he replies. "I know I finished junior year in May, but that's just it. I have no real memory of it."

"But—"

"I don't remember what my school looks like or where my homeroom was." Marcus sits up as his calm mood gives way to agitation. "I don't know if I walked or drove my own car or took the bus to school. I don't even remember the color of Frankie's hair." He looks at me, all trace of that fire gone from his eyes. "That's not something you just forget, right?"

No. No, it's not. "Are you saying everything you know about your life isn't real?"

"It sounds crazy." He exhales and rubs the back of his head. "It's like someone walked up to me and told me all I know. Where I live, what school I go to, the people I know. I was sure it was all true. I accepted it, no questions asked. But now . . . now it feels like the effect is fading, just like with my tattoo, and I'm starting to think what I have in my head aren't memories. They're meaningless and incomplete details."

There's a pause when he finishes speaking, and I don't know how to fill it. I want to dismiss what he's saying, to blame it on the stress of being in this place, except it makes sense on a crazy level. His tattoo, for one. Someone put that on his skin and made him think he got it when his friend died. And Sam—he met him. What if Sam is responsible for brainwashing him into thinking he's someone else?

"Frankie isn't real?" I ask.

He shrugs, his shoulders tense. Frankie impacted his life, or so he believed. His death shaped him into the person he is now. Without that past, who exactly is he?

"If the memories you have are fake," I say, "but Sam really was in your life at some point, that means Alec and Camille were, too. How are they involved?"

"It wasn't Camille."

"What?"

"The girl I caught making out with Alec. I realized it today when I saw Alec holding Camille in his arms. The shade of her hair was all wrong. It was light in my vision. Light and curly."

Light and curly.

"Frizz," Marcus confirms.

Alec and Willow. Together. No way. Those two couldn't have less to do with each other. They barely talk. And how are they involved with Sam? They must have been brainwashed, too. I don't want to consider the other option: that they've been fooling me all along.

"I'm going to wake him up," I say, making a move to get up.

Marcus grabs my wrist. "It can wait until morning."

"This could be important. You might not be the only one whose memories the Takers have messed with." I can't imagine what they'd possibly gain from it, but it's clear by now that nothing is ever pointless as far as they're concerned.

"Maybe." I shiver when he moves his hand higher to my elbow, his thumb tracing circles along my skin. "But I like being here alone with you, and I don't want him around to ruin things before they get started."

His soft touch and the intensity of his dark gaze are disarming. My eyes trail down to his lips as I recall the way they felt against mine, the way his kiss invaded my cells and turned me inside out until he was the only thing that felt right. My caution starts to take flight again, trying to flee the sanctity of my mind. I grab ahold of it before it abandons me.

"What if we're making a mistake?" I say. "We barely know each other. We have nothing in common. And no offense, but until a couple of days ago, I thought you were capable of murder and tyranny and everything in between."

"Good to know I no longer fit the profile of a murderer or a tyrant."

I exhale. "Be serious."

"I didn't know you don't hate me until you threw that mystery case of yours at the kid and put yourself in the middle of that shitstorm. I couldn't decide what to do then—kiss you or yell at you for what was possibly the stupidest thing you've done yet."

"You tried to stop him, too," I argue.

"Sure, because at least I had some chance of living to talk about it."

"Why didn't you use your super-strength?"

He blinks. "It only works when I'm angry. And I wasn't angry when he attacked."

"What were you?"

"Scared shitless."

I don't know why this is the most surprising thing he's said all night, all things considered, but nothing about Marcus suggests he deals with fear like the rest of us mere mortals. "I can't believe you attacked him anyway. You saved us."

He leans in close, his voice dipping to a low rumble. "Yeah, I guess I did. That's got to earn me at least one kiss, right?"

My skin flushes with heat at the thought of another kiss like the one in his bedroom. I'm tempted to give in, to say to hell with being cautious and playing it safe because what good has that ever done me? But I can't. It isn't me.

I rest a hand on his chest and try not to think about how warm and solid he feels. "Marcus . . . it's two in the morning. We need to get some sleep."

"Running away again?"

"No. I just don't want to rush this. I need to think it over, and it's impossible to do that when you're—when you're looking at me like that." I swallow. "Let's sleep on it and if it seems like a good idea tomorrow, we'll decide then."

Marcus turns his attention back to the TV. "Whatever you say."

He's shutting me out again, and I hate it. I can't let things end on a sour note. "Will you sleep with me?" I blush. "I mean, in my room—in Camille's bed. I'd like the company."

The cold displeasure melts from his face and softens into surprise. Then a small smile appears. "Sure, Rose. That can be arranged."