“It was a long day, Jax,” Dante says. I imagine him running his hands through his hair as he speaks.

“Trouble?” Jax asks.

“Remnants. Mines. You name it.”

Dante is telling Jax what really happened, which means he trusts him, unlike Kincaid.

“Do I want to know how you got yourself into that mess?” Jax asks.

“My daughter.” The word is overemphasized, as though Dante is tasting it to see if he likes it.

“She must take after you,” Jax says, clearly amused.

“Don’t start,” Dante warns. “She could have gotten us all killed, and she might as well have sent Cormac an invitation to our outing. It was so obvious that we were there.”

“What are you going to do about her?”

“Knock some sense into her?” Dante says. “I don’t know. She’s stubborn. Oh, don’t give me that look. I know: she gets it from me.”

“She’s been through a lot,” Jax says. “Her life in Arras. Her mother. Even what that scum Deniel tried to do to her. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’m trying, but I don’t want to see her get killed.” There’s a pause in the conversation, and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. “I barely know her.”

“Do you want to?” Jax asks him.

“Yes, I do.” There’s certainty in his words, and I find I’m relieved.

“Did you manage to get any solar energy above the quota?” Jax asks, changing subjects.

“No. I’m sorry. I know how important it is to your work…”

Jost guides me away, urging me to the elevator. We’re both too tired to take the stairs tonight. I have no more interest in Dante’s conversation, but plenty to contemplate. Dante wants to know me. I’m not sure how to feel about that.

When we reach our suite, Jost fills a basin of hot water in his bathroom and brings it to me. We’re both filthy, covered in dirt from the road and ash from the explosion at the ammunition factory. I dip my hands in the basin, rubbing them clean. I’ll take a bath later.

“Dante was upset,” Jost says finally, and it’s evident from his clipped tone that he is as well.

“According to Dante, I have no control over my talents,” I say.

“You sure about that?” he asks.

“I’m always right,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

“Don’t I know it,” he says, unamused. Sullen Jost has returned. Until today’s disastrous events it felt like our relationship had turned a corner, as though we were finally moving forward. I thought he could be happy again. But shades of angry Jost are showing themselves, and suddenly I don’t want to discuss anything with him. Not that he’ll want to talk anyway. He never does when he’s locked inside his own head.

So instead of telling him anything more, I watch him stand and move to the washbasin. I keep watching as he strips off his dirty shirt.

Why don’t I want to go to him? Not so long ago, seeing him like this, being alone with him, would have been enough. But now I feel like I’m the only one wanting, and it’s making me numb.

I force the hurt down and go to him. Before he can turn to me, I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his back. He smells like sweat from our adventures earlier, and when I press my lips to his skin, all I taste is salt.

As I kiss his shoulder, I feel him exhale and then, to my surprise, instead of pulling out of my embrace, he wraps his hands around my wrists and pulls me closer to him.

A shiver runs through me, and I kiss him again. My arms thaw, followed by my chest, until my entire body responds to the contact. I push up on tiptoes to kiss his neck. Then his ear. He spins me to face him but he doesn’t push me away. His arms twist around my waist. But he doesn’t kiss me, he tucks his face against my neck, trailing his lips along until they’re in my hair.

He breathes in deeply and murmurs, “You smell like smoke and fire.”

I smile a little and somehow I know he is smiling, too.

But I don’t let him continue; instead I bring my lips to his. He meets my eagerness, and this kiss is different. His body reacts to mine, crushing closer to me, each of us trying to fuse with the other. I can feel the desperation in our embrace, but there’s want there, too. A need for closeness. A need for something we’ve been denying too long. Something we could lose any moment.

And then he presses me onto my heels and I realize as I stumble back, still kissing him, that he’s leading me to his bed.

I don’t need to think about it. I just have to keep going.

He lays me down gently, and the bed is too small, and I don’t care, because Jost is on top of me and he’s kissing me and I want him. And he wants me.

It’s right.

It’s right.

It’s right.

I bury my face against his chest as he moves back to my neck and I reach for his pants.

His hand grabs my wrist.

And like that the need—the desire—is gone. It sucks from the room, leaving only dry air in its wake.

“Ad,” he manages between breaths, “I can’t.”

“Won’t,” I accuse. It’s the same way he reacted in my room before the play. He pulled away from me then. He’s been pulling away since we got to Earth.

“Don’t start this again,” he says, standing up and grabbing a shirt from the dresser nearby. “I don’t want to argue.”