“Oh.” Well, it had felt rather long. “Perhaps my grip on time wobbled a bit because of the strain.”

His growl came back. “I’m going to kill someone.”

“I think we’re going to be killed.”

“What?” Zaf pulled back a little, looking down at her, and she tried not to whine at the loss of contact. At least his hands were gripping her upper arms now, his thumbs sliding back and forth over her skin in a shower of sparkles. He’d never touched her before.

He really should touch her again, if possible. Soon.

“We’re being poisoned,” she told him sadly. “By gas. But at least my last sight on this earth will be your wonderful beard.”

His response was slow, as if he doubted her cognitive function. “Dani, this is a drill. There is no gas.”

It took her a moment to process those words, but once it happened, she blushed hard enough to combust. “Right. Erm. Sorry about the beard thing. My mind’s all over the place. It’s the gas.”

His gorgeous mouth kicked up at one corner. “The . . . nonexistent gas?”

“Placebo effect,” she told him firmly, and stepped back, breaking the contact between them. If there really was no gas, then it must be touching Zaf that was making her dizzy. And silly. And mushy. That needed to stop. She had nothing to feel mushy about, since he hadn’t actually risked death by cyanide to come to her rescue, and anyway, mushiness was strictly prohibited.

“What’s wrong with your hand?” he frowned, thankfully oblivious to Dani’s mental ramblings. He caught her right wrist and studied what she hadn’t noticed: her nails, torn and slightly bloodied from the force she’d used trying to open the doors.

“Oh, I attempted your method of escape,” she told him airily. “Apparently, I don’t have the biceps for it.”

He didn’t laugh. His frown deepening, he grabbed her other hand for inspection, then dropped it like a hot potato when she let out a hiss of pain. “What—?”

“Sorry. I, er, pulled too hard, I suppose. That wrist aches a little bit. Perhaps I wrenched it.”

“Right,” Zaf said, his eyes burning something awful. He looked mutinous, but evidently not with her, because he stepped forward and slid her rucksack gently off her shoulders. “I’ll take this,” he murmured.

“Oh, no, it’s okay, I—”

“Danika,” he said, iron in his tone. “I. Will take. This.”

“I knew you were bossy, but I had no idea you were this bossy.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “now you know. Just like I know you have a dodgy grasp on time. We’re even.”

She shot him a glare. “Why do I put up with you?”

“I think it has something to do with my wonderful beard.”

“Shut up, you awful man.”

He sighed. “No gratitude. That’s the problem with posh girls.” Before she could formulate a response to that outrageous comment—which she absolutely was not tempted to laugh at—he said, “Come here.” Her rucksack now safely on his back, he scooped her up in his arms like a bride.

Her stomach swooped, and she let out a mortifying little shriek—but really, it couldn’t be helped. Because Zaf’s grip on her waist and her thigh sparked electricity, and her mouth was just inches from his bare, brown throat, and who could blame her for making undignified noises under circumstances like that? It was all very irregular and unreasonably good. Perhaps she should stop doubting the universe and accept this man as her goddess-chosen fuck buddy, after all. He looked down at her with a tiny smirk, a quirk of the lips that seemed to say, Bet you didn’t know I could do that, and she almost melted into a puddle pussy-first.

Of course, she couldn’t let him know she was melting, since he was a handsome man, and handsome men must never be allowed to know the full extent of their sexual appeal. They couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge. So she tried her best to look outraged and demanded, “What on earth are you doing?”

“You hurt yourself,” he said calmly as he carried her toward the stairs.

“I hurt my hands!”

He grunted. “You were trapped in here during a gas leak. Probably aren’t steady on your feet.”

“I thought it was a drill?”

“Emotional trauma,” he said without missing a beat. “You should really check your emails, by the way. Everyone got one. About the drill, I mean.”

“I had other concerns,” she said ominously.

“You always do. Someone should keep an eye on you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He fought back a smile as they crossed the foyer. “What? Is that not allowed?”

“It’s not necessary. Smirk at me all you like, but I doubt you’d let anyone keep an eye on you.”

“Depends on the eye,” he said dryly, and kicked open the building’s front door, which swung far more easily than usual. The students milling around in front of Echo seemed thrilled by Dani and Zaf’s sudden appearance, pointing and whispering among themselves like she was someone exciting rather than an ordinary and extremely tired Ph.D. student with a throbbing wrist. Perhaps they thought she’d been poisoned by amatoxin and were eagerly awaiting her gruesome death. That would certainly explain why they started aiming their camera phones at her.

She gave them a sunny smile—as her bonkers grandmother Gigi would say, Always put your best foot forward—and Zaf looked down at her with obvious bafflement. “What are you doing, Danika?”

“Being beautiful for my people.”

He let out a burst of laughter. “I wish I could carry you around all the time. You do wonders for my mood.”

Silly, to glow at such an obvious joke, and yet Dani did. There was something in the warmth of his eyes as he studied her through lowered lashes, in the tender curve of his smile, all fond exasperation. Like lemonade and vodka, the sweetness contrasted so sharply with the way he held her—tight—and the way he’d dragged her from the lift upstairs, with that feral note in his voice that said . . .

She didn’t know what it said. But she did know they were now staring at each other like mooning teenagers, which was the sort of ridiculous behavior she should put a stop to.

As if he’d read her mind, Zaf looked away and cleared his throat. “I should . . . I really need to talk to someone about that lift. And—”

“And I have things to do,” Dani said firmly. “Cupcakes to eat, research to continue.”

“First aiders to visit,” he added, “about that wrist.”

“Yes,” she lied through her teeth. Professors didn’t knock off work after twinging a wrist, so Dani certainly wouldn’t. She didn’t have the time to waste, anyway. Symposiums to prepare for, and all that. Inez Holly waited for no sprain!

Zaf stared at her, dark eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” she repeated, attempting to look trustworthy. “Absolutely. First aid. Medical professionals. Et cetera.” As Gigi always said, Men are much less time-consuming when you lie.

Except, apparently, for this man. “If I find out you haven’t had that looked at, you’ll be in deep shit.”

“Duly noted,” she said dryly, which was impressive, considering she was in fact extremely wet.

Zaf sighed and took her over to the little wall surrounding the building’s flowerbed, setting her gently down as if she really was injured. “I mean it, Danika,” he said, propping her rucksack by her feet. “I’m watching you.”

But when he turned to find his supervisor, she was the one watching him. Specifically, his arse.

She had to take some pleasures, after such a stressful day.

Dani did as she’d been told. Sort of.

Her wrist was aching quite a bit, and if it got any worse it might slow down her typing speed. So she popped some painkillers and went to her older sister Chloe’s house at the end of the day.

Their youngest sister, Eve, answered the door, a smile on her face and a single AirPod in her ear. “Dan! I didn’t know you were coming over.”

“Yes, well, here I am.”

“You changed your hair again. We match!” Eve flicked one of her own pastel-pink braids and shut the door behind them.

“Wonderful,” Dani murmured, slightly distracted. Memories of being held tight against Zaf’s chest had haunted her all day, and after failing for hours to escape the bastards, she’d decided to let them simply wash over her.

Now she was all hot and shuddering inside like her battered old laptop, so distracted she almost missed Redford, Chloe’s boyfriend, calling, “Hey, Dani,” as they passed the room where he painted.

“Hi, Red,” she called weakly, and walked on into the living room.

“Dani!” Chloe, the eldest Brown sister, perched on a throne of cushions and blankets formerly known as the sofa. Chloe would tell Dani to buy a new laptop, because she didn’t understand that old technology could hold character and luck. “Thank goodness you’re here,” she said now. “Eve’s been boring me to death—”

“Hey!”

“With Pinterest boards and Instagram hashtags and all sorts of rubbish.”