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“I did.”

“That’s going in my memoirs. Chapter title pending, but it’s going in,” he said without his usual flourish, quieter than she’d ever heard him, and she understood, watching his face, that underneath the joke he was honestly rattled by how close tonight had come to going a different way. “I’m glad you’re still standing, is what I’m attempting to say badly.”

“I noticed. Thank you for attempting it, sincerely, even badly.”

“I’m much better at the jokes. I’ll go back to those once I’ve confirmed you’re actually all right and not just performing all right for everyone’s benefit, mine especially, because I’ve watched you do that before and I’m not currently in the mood to be fooled by it.”

“I’m actually all right. Mostly. Ask me again tomorrow when the adrenaline’s worn off and I’ve had a chance to properly panic about it in private, the way any reasonable person would.”

“Fair. I’ll circle back, and I’ll bring something with a great deal more alcohol in it than the wine from dinner.”

Victor peeled off toward the security office, tablet lit with three new alerts he needed to run down before morning. Norden didn’t let go of her hand once, not through the elevator ride, not through the lobby, not through any of the distance between the corridor and the car waiting to take her somewhere he’d already decided was safer than her own apartment.

“I’m capable of sleeping in my own bed, you realize, without supervision, as I have for the entirety of my adult life up to this exact point in time.”

“I don’t doubt your capability. I doubt my own ability to be anywhere else tonight and remain a functional person.” Not a shred of apology in it. “Humor me. Consider it payment for the shirt cuff.”

“That’s an aggressive markup on one bandage, historically speaking, compared to the going rate for basic first aid.”

“I’m an aggressive man, by most accounts. You’ve mentioned it yourself, more than once, generally with some affection attached, occasionally without any at all, depending on the specific circumstances.”

“Fair. I stand by every single instance, without exception, on the record.”

She let him keep her hand the entire time, and didn’t once complain about the terms.

He kissed her, slowly despite everything, one hand cradling the back of her head like the rest of the night hadn’t happened yet, like she hadn’t spent the last hour bleeding on him in a corridor. She kissed him back the same way — slow, deliberate, neither of them in any rush to prove the night hadn’t rattled them both far more than either was willing to say out loud.

EIGHTEEN

NORDEN

“You’re staying here.”

“I’m not.”

Romily said it from the penthouse doorway, jacket already on, the bandage on her forearm still faintly damp where she’d redressed it herself rather than wait for anyone to do it for her, the set of her jaw telling him this argument had already been decided before he’d finished forming the sentence. She had a jagged wedge of conductive glass wrapped in a dish towel in one hand — a scrap piece from the atrium installation, salvaged along with the rest of her tools after the corridor, and the only weapon in the building she actually trusted — held the way a woman holds something she’s already decided how to use.

“You’ve been managed, protected, and left out of exactly one decision too many this month.” She said it plainly, no room in it for negotiation. “I’m not sitting in this apartment with Victor’s second string while you go do whatever caveman thing you’re about to do. My hands are apparently a weapon now. I’d like to hold one for a change.”

“Absolutely not.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

“It sounded like one.”

“I was being polite about it. That window’s closed.” She hefted the glass, in no rush, a woman with all night to have this fight even though they both knew she didn’t. “Drag me back inside if you want. I’ll fight you the whole way and it’ll cost you far more than the eleven minutes this argument is currently eating.”

He closed the space between them in two strides, backed her against the doorframe, done being interested in the argument the second she’d said caveman, and kissed her the way a man kisses a woman he has no further intention of losing an argument to — thoroughly enough that neither of them was thinking about Victor’s second string for several full seconds afterward.

“That wasn’t a concession,” she said, slightly breathless, when he let her surface.

“It wasn’t meant to be one. I simply needed a moment before continuing to lose.”

He argued for a few more seconds. He knew this because he counted them, the way he counted everything when the alternative was letting the dragon do the deciding — eleven seconds of no, of it isn’t safe, of every protective instinct he owned throwing itself against a woman who had already, visibly, stopped listening. She held his stare the entire time, unimpressed, arms crossed, glass still in one fist.

“Fine. You’re coming. You’re not staying in the car either.”

“I never suggested the car.”