My face burns.
He's not asleep. The quality of his breathing is off—too controlled, too deliberate. He's lying there three feet away and neither of us is sleeping and he said that and he's not taking it back.
He's not taking it back.
I should feel used. Threatened. Disgusted.
I'm wet. I'm so fucking wet it's embarrassing, and he's right there, and my body wants—
Nope.
The lamp burns lower. The room goes dark.
I lie in his bed with my thighs pressed together and my pulse refusing to slow and I do not think about his thumb in my mouth. I do not think about what else could go there. I do not think about the way he smiled when I pushed back, that wrong tilt of his head, like my anger was the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years.
His breathing doesn't even out.
Mine doesn't either.
I can still feel his thumb. The pressure of it against my lip. The way he pushed just past—just enough to feel the wet inside my mouth before he pulled back.
My tongue finds the spot. Traces it.
Stop.
Feet away, he exhales.
Yeah, sleep isn't happening.
There's a thread loose at the hem of her sleeve. Gold. I noticed it last night. I've been thinking about pulling it for six hours.
Not the thread. Her.
She's awake. Pretending. Her breathing is the kind of even that takes effort—four counts in, hold, slow release. She learned that somewhere. I want to know where. I want to know everything about her and I want to peel her open and I want—
My cock aches. Has since I woke up. Since before I woke up. I dreamed about her throat and the sounds she'd make if I—
The door opens.
Renan. His eyes move from me to her to me again. His mouth does that thing.
"Morning."
"What."
"We caught someone." His voice drops. "Last night. One of the tunnel runners. Passing information."
I'm vertical before I finish processing. The cot scrapes. Behind me, her breathing changes. Faster. She was awake.
I was right.
Of course I was right.
"Who."
"Taren. Six years with us." Renan's expression goes cold. "He's in the lower levels. Hasn't talked yet."
Taren. I try to place the face. Young. Brown hair. Eager in that desperate way people get when they're grateful for a place that doesn't ask questions. His thread was always gray at the edges. I noticed.
