Page 168 of Victorious

Victor waited, forcing Mitch to say it.

“I guess I just assumed that if you fixed your powers, you’d…”

Come back.

That’s what he’d almost said. Even though, if Mitch was being honest, he hadn’t wanted Victor to. Sydney hated him for leaving, but in Mitch’s opinion, it was the best thing he’d ever done. With or without his powers, Victor Vale was a dangerous man. Pain followed him wherever he went.

And now he was back, and Mitch didn’t know whether to feel bitter or relieved.

Because Victor was right.

Mitch had had one job—keeping Sydney safe—and he’d failed.

And yet. He was the one who’d stayed. Who’d tried. Who’d—

“Well.” Victor looked out the window. “You know what they say about assuming.”

“Fuck you.”

The words spilled out of Mitch, unchecked. Victor tensed, brows arching in surprise. From the day they’d been put in the same cell, Mitch had seen what Victor was, what he could do, and he’d decided then and there, the best way to stay alive was to stay on his good side, and out of his way. Mitch had been afraid of Victor then. He still was now. But it turned out, anger burned hotter than fear.

He held his breath, half expected Victor to twitch his fingers, to feel the pain of his broken ribs and battered body surging back.

But the moment passed, the only sound the hum of the pickup’s tires on the highway. Mitch turned his attention back to the road.

“How did you get to the motel so fast?” he asked. The question had been irking him, like a pebble in his shoe.

“I stole a plane,” said Victor flatly.

Mitch shot him a look. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious.”

Victor shrugged. “Have I ever been funny?”

Mitch glanced at the clock and swore inwardly. He’d missed his latest dose.

His watch hadn’t chirped because the agents had taken it off him, along with the pills. Now, as Victor stared out the window at the blurring fields, he fetched a second bottle from the center console and tipped a charcoal-colored pill into his palm, swallowing dry, hoping Victor wouldn’t notice.

Of course, he did.

“What’s that?” he asked, turning back to face him.

Mitch could have lied, the way he had to Syd, told him it was for heartburn, or hypertension. But Victor’s gaze bored into him. And with it, that subtle pressure he exerted. A tightness took root in Mitch’s skin, just shy of real discomfort. “Just something I started taking. In case.”

“In case of what?” demanded Victor.

“Death.” The word hung between them. The pressure intensified, until Mitch let out a breath, and explained the forum he’d found, the theory behind the EO-inducing capsules, the way they elevated baseline adrenal function and bonded with stress hormones, a small, chemical bomb that would only detonate under extreme duress. The more Mitch talked, the dumber it sounded, a sentiment reflected on Victor’s face.

“That’s not how it works,” he said.

Mitch shrugged. “Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

“Of course it can,” countered Victor. “Best case, it’s an overpriced placebo, and worst, you give yourself a heart attack the moment you’re exposed to stress.”

Mitch could have pointed out that under that logic, the past twelve hours should have been more than enough to kill him.

Instead, he focused on the road.

Beside him, Victor stared out the window, perfectly still except for his right hand, which turned the small metal disc like a rosary between his fingers.