“Will still be there tomorrow.” Riot’s voice was firm. “One day of rest isn’t going to make or break your mission. But trying to work when you’re clearly unwell is going to make everything harder.”
Cass wanted to argue, but he was so tired, and Riot’s voice was so certain, and the thought of going back to his room and lying down sounded so much better than another day of rejection and contempt.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll rest.”
“Good.”
Cass finished the last of his eggs and set down his fork, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. Their knees were touching again. Riot’s scent wrapped around him like a blanket.
“Will I see you again?” The question came out before Cass could stop it, small and hopeful and embarrassing.
Riot stood abruptly, pulling out paper iscs to pay the vendor. “Probably,” he said, without looking at Cass. “We’re in the same goddamn hotel.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the morning crowd, and Cass was alone with his empty plates. He should go back to his room. He should rest, like Riot said.
Instead, he sat at the counter for a long time, breathing in the fading traces of strawberries and cream, and wondered why the only person who’d shown him kindness kept walking away like Cass was something dangerous.
Maybe I am dangerous. Maybe there’s something wrong with me that makes people want to leave.
It wasn’t a new thought. But this time it hurt more than usual.
Chapter four
Field Research
Riot
Riotlastedapproximatelyforty-fiveminutes before he broke.
He’d gone back to his room after breakfast with every intention of staying there. He was going to lock the door, wedge the chair under the door knob, and stare at the ceiling until his suppressants arrived or he lost his mind, whichever came first. The kid was fed. The kid had been told to rest. The kid wasnotRiot’s responsibility.
This was, Riot reflected, an excellent plan. The kind of plan that sensible people made and then successfully executed. The kind of plan that did not involve pacing the length of a cramped hotel room like a caged animal, or doing breathing exercises that were about as effective as trying to put out a house fire with a squirt gun, or very deliberately not thinking about hazel eyes and fever-flushed cheeks and the small sound Cass had made when Riot touched his elbow.
Forty-five minutes. That’s how long his self-control lasted. Forty-five minutes of increasingly pathetic negotiation with his own impulses before the sound of a door opening three rooms down demolished whatever remained of his resolve.
He’s not resting. The stubborn little—he’s going right back out there.
Riot was at his own door before he finished the thought, hand on the knob, every rational argument against this course of action dissolving like sugar in water.
This is a bad idea.
He opened the door anyway.
The hallway was empty, but the fading trace of caramel and cinnamon told him which direction Cass had gone. Riot followed at a distance, telling himself this was surveillance. Reconnaissance. A tactical assessment of potential threats to a vulnerable civilian who happened to be staying in the same hotel.
Not stalking. Definitely not stalking.
You’re absolutely stalking him. You’ve gone from “I should stay away” to “I’m going to follow him around the marketplace like a very large, very dangerous golden retriever” in less than an hour. This is what rock bottom looks like.
The morning air was cool and damp and the streets were already filled with the usual chaos of refugees shuffling towardwork assignments, and people trying to survive another day in the cracks between corporate territories.
Riot spotted Cass half a block ahead, those distinctive robes making him easy to track even in a crowd. From an operative standpoint, the kid was a surveillance nightmare—he might as well have been wearing a tracking beacon and a sign that said “please notice me.”
Cass moved like he was underwater. Slower than Riot had seen before, his shoulders already carrying the weight of anticipated failure. Even from this distance, Riot could see the flush still visible on his cheekbones, the careful way he held himself like sudden movements might shatter something.
I told him to rest. I bought him breakfast and told him to rest and he walked right back out into this.
The frustration that surged through him was disproportionate and he knew it. Cass didn’t owe him obedience. They’d shared one meal and a handful of conversations—that didn’t give Riot any claim on the kid’s choices. But watching Cass push through the crowd while obviously still unwell made something in Riot’s chest twist uncomfortably.
