He reached out a hand, and Rosario flinched from it instinctively, from the memory of fierce summer heat and flaring sunlight, but Apollo moved faster. His open hand closed around her tightly balled fist like paper trumping rock.
She tensed, but there was no rush of heat this time, just the regular human warmth of skin against skin, and now that was gonna mess with her too, a deceptive outcrop of normalcy in a sheer canyon of not-normal.
A part of her, inseparable. Like Lyra's red hair and preternatural luck. Like a hereditary disease, one with no hope of remission.
Rosario wrenched her hand away in a rush of panic. "It's not me, I don't want it!"