His hand was still on Cass’s neck.
“Brother Cassiopeia,” Matthias said, gentler now. “I’ll have towels brought for you both. We’ll find something suitable for our new seeker’s frame. And I’ll want a full report on your mission when you’ve rested. We have much to discuss about your time in the outer territories.”
“Yes, Brother Matthias.”
Matthias gave the back of Cass’s neck a small squeeze—the kind a parent might give, or a lover, or an owner—and let go. The door closed behind him with a soft, perfectly engineered click.
Riot waited three seconds. Then five. Then ten, making sure the footsteps faded, making sure no one else remained in the infirmary so the next words he spoke wouldn’t carry to anyone who could use them.
“Cass.”
Cass didn’t turn around. His shoulders hitched once in a small, convulsive motion, quickly suppressed.
“Princess,” Riot said softly. “We need to wash up.”
Cass turned then. His eyes were red-rimmed but dry, his chin lifted at an angle that was pure stubborn refusal to break. He looked at Riot—really looked, taking in the shirtless torso and the stitches and the bandaged hands and whatever was on Riot’s face that Riot was trying very hard to control—and his expression softened.
“There are bathing rooms off the east corridor,” Cass said. “They’ll bring towels first. Then we can...”
He trailed off as he crossed the space between them and pressed his forehead against Riot’s bare shoulder. Riot brought his hand up and stroked Cass’s back as a warm, brightness settled in Riot’s body, like sunlight on a bruise.
“Welcome home, princess,” he murmured into Cass’s hair.
Cass huffed a laugh and pressed closer.
Behind them, through the infirmary windows, Springfield Gardens caught the last of the afternoon light and glowed like the paradise it never was.
Chapter thirty-five
White Robes
Riot
Thebathingroomhadbeen designed to absorb sound the way a mouth absorbs a scream.
Two stalls, open at the top, separated by a waist-high partition that provided the illusion of privacy without any of the substance. Water that came from recessed fixtures in the wall—no showerheads to adjust, no temperature controls to fiddle with, just a steady cascade at exactly the right warmth, because Elysian had opinions about what the right warmth was and thoseopinions were not negotiable. Soap that smelled like nothing, or like the expensive ghost of something floral, engineered to cleanse without leaving a scent signature. Everything calibrated. Everything intentional.
Brother Matthias did not leave.
He positioned himself near the entrance—not watching, exactly. Notnotwatching, either.
Riot stripped with his back to the room in the stall, which made him feel like a bear trying to undress in a telephone booth, stepped under the water and let it hit his shoulders and he did not think about the fact that Cass was three feet away, separated by a marble partition, naked and wet and being supervised by a man who…
He thought about ceiling panels instead.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five marble tiles in the ceiling. Grout lines at regular intervals. No surveillance visible but that means nothing—Elysian Dynamics probably hides their cameras the way other corporations hide their bodies. Six. Seven…
“Brother Cassiopeia, your hair.” Matthias’s voice carried easily in the marble acoustics, warm and solicitous and landing on Riot’s skin like something with legs. “It’s quite tangled from your journey. Would you like me to wash it for you? I know how difficult it can be with your shoulder—”
Riot’s hand found the marble partition and squeezed so hard he was surprised he didn’t crack it.
“Thank you, Brother Matthias, but I’ve learned to manage on my own. During my mission, I had to... I became more capable.”
There was a beat of silence, like the slight hitch in a room’s energy as a man accustomed to total access encountered a boundary where none had existed before.
“Of course,” Matthias said. “Independence is a sign of spiritual growth. I’m proud of you.”
I’m proud of you.The words were a key turning in a lock—Riot could hear Cass respond to them physically, a small shift in his breathing that meant the praise landed where it was designed to land. Somewhere deep and hungry and conditioned to need exactly this.
