“And”—Fang leaned forward—“that’s not necessary.”
Dylan put up his hands. “Look, you don’t need to get all alpha on me, man.” Regardless of his history with Fang, he wasn’t about to actually fight him there, in the middle of the house. Especially not after all the headway he’d made with Max. “I just like to sleep there. There’s nothing going on,” Dylan said, and instantly wished he hadn’t.
“Oh, nothing’s going on?” Fang barked out a laugh that made Dylan flush with humiliation. “No kidding, Casanova. You don’t need to tell me that much—Max has standards, after all.”
Dylan opened his mouth to protest, to tell this jerk exactly what kind of standards Max had, to blurt out every detail about the scene in the tree house—Max’s mouth, Max’s skin, Max’s soft feathers under his hands. But in that instant Dylan also saw what would follow—the hurt on Max’s face, the accusation—and stopped short.
“Look, maybe you think you’re protecting her or something,” Fang continued. “Who knows? But she’s safe here, with all of us around her. She doesn’t need you curled up at the foot of her bed like a lovesick dog.”
Dylan clamped his lips shut and tried to talk himself out of decking Fang. Not worth it, he told himself.
“So you can stop protecting her,” Fang said. “I’m back now. The flock is together again.” He faltered for a split second, and Dylan knew exactly which person had just crossed his mind—a small blond person with white wings. “Max is fine.”
Now it was Dylan’s turn to laugh. He looked at Fang coolly. “Excuse me? You’re back now, so automatically everything’s good again? Who do you think you’re kidding? Things got worse the moment you came crawling back through that door.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Fang. “Worse for you, you mean, now that your little dream world is ending?”
Dylan ignored that. “You’re supposedly doing this all for Max, right?” he challenged. Fang nodded, leaning back against the doorjamb. “Well, sorry to break it to you, but by coming back, all you’ve done is put Max in more danger.” Dylan sighed and sat on the edge of his bed, resting his elbows on his knees.
Silence. Then: “What?”
Dylan looked at Fang with a level gaze. “Haven’t you noticed that, like, the entire world is hunting you?” he asked.
Fang shifted. “They’re after all of us. They always have been,” Fang said quietly, but he was frowning.
“You seriously don’t know? You’re the one they want, not Max, not the rest of the flock!” Dylan was shouting now. “It’s you, Fang. It’s your DNA they’re after.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“My DNA?” Fang laughed, but it sounded tinny and hollow to Dylan’s ears. “My DNA is, like, Generation Zero.”
“Well, fifty-fourth, actually,” Dylan said. “But apparently they discovered something that has every whitecoat in the world after you.”
“Who did? I don’t believe you,” Fang spat, but the uncertainty in his eyes—the fear—betrayed him. “What kind of discovery could they possibly make about me that I wouldn’t know?”
Dylan let out a breath. “I… can’t tell you.”
Fang pushed off the doorjamb and crossed the bedroom in two strides. He stood in front of Dylan, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining. “You can’t tell me? And why is that? Because you’re making this up? Because a little bird told you? Because you’re on
their side?”
“I’m on the side of Max surviving,” Dylan shot back. “I didn’t make this up. But I can’t tell you the details unless—”
“Unless what?” Fang’s voice was tight.
“Unless you swear to leave… and never come back.”
They stared at each other, black eyes locked onto blue, night and day.
“I can’t swear that,” Fang said in a low voice.
Dylan’s jaw clenched. “Then I can’t be held accountable for anything I do to you. You’re putting her in danger. You’re putting everyone in danger. Don’t you even care?”
“My Voice said to be with Max,” answered Fang. “I’m never leaving her again.”
49