Behind me, I hear Malrec shift his weight. "What are?—"
"I'm fine." My voice comes out rough, unsteady. I don't turn around. Can't turn around. My face feels hot, and my body is buzzing with something I absolutely cannot name right now.
It wasn't a memory. Itcan'tbe a memory. I've never—we haven't—that's insane. Impossible.
But it felt so real.
I could feel the texture of his skin beneath my hands. Could hear the exact timbre of his voice in my ear. Could feel the way my body responded to his, like we'd done it a hundred times before, like we knew exactly how to move together.
My hands are still shaking.
"Lenna."
He says it again, and this time my entire nervous system lights up in response. My skin prickles with awareness, and heat pools low in my stomach in a way that makes me want to sink through the floor and disappear entirely.
No. Absolutely not. This isMalrec. The demon who has spent the past two weeks making my life miserable. Who looks at me like I'm an inconvenient obstacle to his perfectly ordered routine. Who I hate with a clarity that should make this physical response impossible.
And yet.
I force myself to turn, to face him, because refusing will only make this worse. His expression is unreadable—that same controlled mask he always wears—but there's something in his eyes I can't quite interpret. Confusion, maybe. Or suspicion.
"What?" I manage.
He studies me for a long moment, and I have to actively resist the urge to look away. To run. To do anything other than stand here while my body betrays me with every accelerated heartbeat.
"You look unwell," he finally says.
"I'm fine."
"You're flushed."
"It's hot down here."
It's a weak excuse, but it's all I have. My mind is still reeling, trying to reconcile the impossible flash of sensation with reality. Trying to understand why hearing him say my name felt like a trigger, like my body recognized something my conscious mind can't access.
Malrec's eyes narrow slightly, and for a horrible moment I think he's going to push. To demand an explanation I can't possibly give.
Instead, he just looks at me for another beat, then turns away. "Get back to work."
He walks toward the descent corridor, his movements controlled and precise, leaving me standing by the supply station with my heart still racing and my thoughts in complete disarray.
I watch him go, and I hate that I'm watching. Hate that my eyes track the line of his shoulders, the way he moves with that predatory grace, the breadth of his frame that my hands apparently remember even though my mind insists it's impossible.
He's undeniably attractive.
It's not the first time I've thought it, even if I hate it. But it's true. He's tall, powerfully built, with features that would be striking even if he wasn't currently making my life a living hell. The dark gray skin, the ember-gold eyes, the sharp angles of his face softened just slightly by the fall of his silver hair.
And apparently, according to whatever the hell just happened in my head, my bodyknowsthis. Responds to it in ways that bypass my conscious hatred entirely.
I force myself to move, to return to my tasks, but I can't stop replaying that flash. The feel of him above me. The sound of my name in his voice, desperate and raw. The way my body fit against his like we were designed for it.
It keeps looping in my mind, intrusive and insistent, no matter how hard I try to focus on something else.
I glance toward where Malrec disappeared, and my pulse jumps again.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
Because I hate him. Ihatehim. But my body apparently didn't get the memo.
