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The doors slid shut, sealing us in the hallway.

The team let out a collective breath. We were alive, but the night wasn’t over yet. We boarded the main lift, the high-speed car rocketing us upward, leaving the grit of the stadium far below until the doors opened onto the tenth floor.

The National Team quarters were obscene.

We were ushered into the Penthouse, a space that made the Tier 1 dorms look like prison cells. The living area was walled in floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the entire glittering sprawl of the Capital. The furniture was white leather. The bar was stocked with real alcohol, not the synthetic stuff they served in the Nexus.

Felix stared out at the city through the window, his reflection ghostly in the glass. He unbuttoned his ruined shirt, his fingers fumbling with the studs.

“We aren’t safe,” he whispered. “We just traded one target for a bigger one.”

“We’re alive, Felix.”

“For how long?”

I walked up behind Felix and wrapped my arms around his waist, pulling his back against my chest. I buried my face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

“We won the battle,” I said. “Let’s worry about the war tomorrow.”

I turned him around. He looked up at me, his blue eyes blown wide and vulnerable. The King was gone; this was just the boy who needed to be held.

“Shower,” I said. “You’re covered in glitter.”

He nodded. “My room or yours?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

We walked into the suite on the left. The bathroom was a sanctuary of black marble and gold fixtures. The shower was a rainfall room, big enough for the entire squad. I turned the water on, letting the steam fill the space.

We stripped in silence. My ruined suit went into the incinerator chute. His tuxedo joined it. We stood there, naked and bruised, two survivors washing the war off our skin.

“Your boot,” Felix said, looking at the heavy plastic casing on my leg. “It can’t get wet.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Sit,” Felix said, pointing to the marble bench built into the shower wall, out of the direct spray.

I sat, extending my bad leg, keeping it clear of the water.

Felix stepped under the spray, grabbed a sponge and lathered it with soap. He washed himself first, scrubbing the grease and the gold dust from his skin until he glowed pale and clean in the steam.

Then he came to me. Kneeling between my legs, he let the water sheet over his back, pinning his platinum hair to his skull. A hunger filled his eyes that had nothing to do with survival.

The sponge glided over my chest; he followed the scars on my ribs with a reverent touch. It moved down my thighs next, his hands strong, steady, sure.

He dropped the sponge and placed his hands on my knees to spread my legs wider.

“Felix?”

A kiss landed on the inside of my thigh, then another, a little higher. My breath hitched. “What are you doing?”

“Worshipping,” he whispered against my skin.

My hips lifted in his grip, his fingers digging into my glutes to angle me. He buried his face between my legs, then drifted lower still.

“Fuck,” I groaned, gripping his wet hair as his tongue pressed against my hole.