“Like what?” she snaps. “A kiss and a fizzle?”
“No. Like... unfinished.”
She sighs. Rocks the baby. “Troka, this isn’t a game.”
“I’m not playing.”
She stares at me, eyes dark and stormy.
“Is he mine?” I ask, voice rough.
She flinches. Doesn’t answer.
“Alaina.”
“Yes,” she lies.
And Ifeelit. Deep in my bones.
She’s just not ready to say it.
So I step back.
Again.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say.
Her head jerks up.
“I want to be here. That’s it. No conditions. No demands.”
“Why?” she whispers.
“Because I never stopped wanting you.”
Silence.
Then a nod. Barely.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
CHAPTER 17
ALAINA
The apartment smells like sugar and plastifoam and just a little bit of panic.
“Alaina, where do you want the juicebots?” Jorla’s already halfway to the kitchen, carrying a bag that’s leaking pink fizzy.
“Counter, if they’re not bleeding neon, thanks.”
“They’re bleeding neon.”
“Then bathtub.”
The living room is chaos. Streamers hanging crooked from the light fixtures, a hoverball target net hanging at averysuspect angle, and three toddlers shrieking like they’ve been given straight caffeine.
Which they probably have. I’m not asking.
