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Helier Merula.

The former Reserve captain spotted us watching and grinned, the same unhinged grin from the field.

“Morning, neighbors!” he shouted over the wind. “Nice view of the garbage trucks, right?”

He pointed down at Anatol’s transport.

“Helier, get down from there.”

Another voice cut in, exhausted.

Vesper Crus stepped onto the balcony, looking miserable. He wore his uniform with perfect precision, but his shoulders were rigid with tension. He grabbed Helier by the back of his shirt and yanked him off the railing.

“You’re going to fall,” Vesper snapped.

“I bounce!” Helier laughed, spinning around to drape an arm over Vesper’s stiff shoulders. “Don’t be such a wife, Vesper. We’re celebrating!”

Vesper shoved him off. “We are on probation. The Director assigned me to handle you, not to babysit a suicidal toddler.”

“Handler,” Helier purred, leaning into Vesper’s space until they were nose-to-nose. “I like that word. Does it mean you get to put a collar on me?”

Vesper turned a violent shade of red. He looked at us mortified, and gave me a stiff nod, an apology and a plea for help wrapped in one, before grabbing Helier’s arm and dragging him back inside.

“Walk, Merula. We have a briefing.”

“Bye, pretty boy!” Helier called out to me, winking before the glass door slid shut, muffling his laughter.

I stared at the empty balcony.

“That,” Leander said dryly, “is going to be a disaster.”

“That,” I said, turning away from the window, “is not our problem for now.”

I set my coffee cup down on the table. The world outside was still cruel. The Director was still plotting. The season was going to be a slaughter, and Helier Merula was going to burn the Spire down if Vesper didn’t stop him.

But right now, the door was locked.

I turned in Leander’s arms, sliding my hands up his chest to grip his shoulders. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung sleep shorts. My eyes dropped to his right leg. The heavy medical boot was gone, replaced by a sleek black carbon-fiber brace that encased his ankle, a piece of high-tech armor grafted to his skin.

He flexed his foot. The brace whirred softly.

“State property,” he said, his voice flat. “They fixed the bone, but they installed a tracker. If I step out of line, they can lock the joint remotely.”

“I won’t let them,” I whispered.

“I know.”

Leander stood framed by the harsh morning light, wild and out of place among the white leather and chrome of the suite, then his arms were solid around me.

“Leander,” I murmured.

He looked down, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Yeah?”

“What happens when the season ends?” I asked. The question had been clawing at me since the cameras turned off. “If we win? If we lose? What happens to us?”

Leander’s grip tightened on my waist. He pulled me flush against his chest, eliminating the last fraction of space between us.

“I don’t have an after without you in it,” he said, his voice rough. “You think I went through hell just to play a season with you? You think I fought just for a contract?”