It wasn't about sex anymore. It was about fusion. It was about proving that the math was wrong, or maybe that the math was the only thing that was right. The probability of this working was zero.
But as Kit filled her, and as I guided her hips, and as Alfie kissed the breath from her lungs, the data was undeniable.
We were a perfect circuit.
And looking at the way she unraveled, the way she screamedoursinto the recycled air of the bus, I knew one thing for certain.
No one was exiting this ride. Not tonight. Not ever.
THIRTY-TWO
Zia
The aftermath wasn't quiet. Silence is just the absence of signal, and the nest in the back lounge was loud with data.
I lay suspended in a tangle of limbs and heavy, humid air, blinking against the strobing remnants of the climax that had just rewired my entire nervous system. The indigo floor lights painted us all in bruised shades of purple and blue.
Alfie was a dead weight across my thighs, his face buried in the mattress, breathing in hitching, shallow rhythms that ruffled the sheet against my skin. Kit was the wall behind me, his chest a solid slab of heat radiating espresso and dark earth, his arm locked around my waist like a safety bar on a roller coaster. Euan was slumped against my right side, his forehead resting on my shoulder, his hand limp where it had fallen from my hair.
The air smelled like a bakery caught in a thunderstorm. Burnt sugar. Dark molasses. Toasted sesame. And cutting through it all, sharp and blindingly bright, my own scent, neon citrus and ozone, saturated the space. Euan had kept his word; the scrubbers were off. We were marinating in the biological reality of what we’d just done.
"Status?" I whispered. My voice sounded like gravel in a blender.
"System rebooting," Euan mumbled into my deltoid without opening his eyes. "Please hold."
"I think I’m dead," Alfie groaned into the mattress. "I think you killed me, fox. Check my pulse. Am I a ghost?"
"You’re breathing on my leg," I said, reaching down to tangle my fingers in his sweat-damp hair. "Ghosts don't drool."
"I'm not drooling," he protested weakly, but he turned his head, pressing a kiss to my knee. "I'm leaking happiness. Different mechanism."
Behind me, Kit shifted. The movement was tectonic. He pressed his face into the curve of my neck, inhaling deep and slow.
"You alright, Z?" His voice was a low rumble that vibrated straight through my spine. "Not crushed? Not... regretful?"
I paused. I scanned my internal mix.
My hips ached with a dull, heavy throb that I knew would turn into a waddle by morning. My skin felt sensitive, abraded by stubble and denim and desire. My brain felt like it had been taken apart and put back together with better wiring.
Regret?
I looked at the Exit Card drawer. It was shut.
"No," I said, the realization settling in my chest like a heavy, comforting stone. "No regret. Just... saturation. My input meters are peaked."
"We went hard," Kit admitted, his thumb rubbing a slow, soothing circle on my hip bone. "Maybe too hard."
"We matched the frequency," I corrected him. "It was loud because it had to be."
I tried to sit up. It was a mistake. My muscles protested, jelly-like and trembling.
"Easy," Euan said, sitting up instantly. His technician mode engaged despite his dilated pupils and the sleep-creases on his cheek. He put a hand on my back, supporting me. "Hydration logic dictates we are all currently in a deficit. Also, calorie intake is required."
"If I eat a protein bar right now, I will cry," I stated flatly.
"Real food," Alfie said, finally pushing himself up. He looked like a beautiful wreck with his eyeliner smeared, hair standing on end, marks on his neck where I’d grabbed him. He beamed at me, a lopsided, golden thing. "We’re near a 24-hour service station. Barry can stop. We can get... terrible sandwiches."
"I want a milkshake," I said. "A chocolate one. Thick enough to stand a spoon in."
