Thehotelchairhadbeen designed by someone with a personal vendetta against the human spine. Riot had been sitting in it for six hours ever since he’d carefully extracted himself from under a sleeping Cass around midnight and his vertebrae had progressed from filing formal complaints to threatening class action litigation.
Six hours of watching the kid toss and turn through fitful sleep. Six hours of his lower back screaming mutiny. Six hours of trying not to think about how perfectly Cass fit against him.
He had to move. There was no other option.
Cass had fallen asleep with his head tucked under Riot’s chin, one hand curled against Riot’s chest, making small contented sounds that did absolutely nothing for Riot’s self-control. And then he started moving in his sleep, little shifts and wiggles, pressing closer, his body seeking warmth and comfort.
By the time Cass’s thigh slid across Riot’s lap for the third time, Riot had been hard enough to pound nails and approximately thirty seconds from doing something unforgivable.
So he moved. Carefully, slowly, holding his breath as he settled Cass onto the pillow and retreated to the chair like the coward he apparently was.
It was the right thing to do. The responsible thing.
It was also the thing that was slowly killing him.
Every time Cass made a sound—a whimper, a sigh, the rustle of sheets—Riot’s entire nervous system snapped to attention. The kid’s scent was changing by the hour, getting richer and more complex, filling the small room until Riot felt like he would die if he didn’t lick him.Get back in that bed. Pull him close. Show him what his body is actually for.
Riot dug his nails into his palms, reopening the crescents he’d carved sometime around 3 AM. The pain helped. Marginally.
Cass stirred as morning light seeped through the curtains and Riot stared at him. Flushed cheeks, worse than yesterday. Damp hair clinging to his forehead. His robes were twisted around him from restless sleep, clinging to fever-hot skin in ways that outlined everything underneath.
He had maybe a day or two until full heat, if Riot’s knowledge of corporate suppressant programs was still accurate. Gensynhad run enough “cycle optimization” studies that Riot could probably write a dissertation on Omega biology at this point. Not that he’d wanted that particular education.
He’s burning up. I should be in that bed with him, keeping him comfortable. Helping him.
Riot pressed his palms flat against his thighs and breathed and counted to ten. Then counted again because ten wasn’t nearly enough.
Cass’s eyes fluttered open, hazy and confused for a moment before they found Riot. Something in his expression shifted—hope, then uncertainty, then something that looked uncomfortably like hurt.
“You moved,” Cass croaked out.
“Yeah.”
Cass pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the movement. “Did I... was I bad at cuddling? I know I said I’d teach you, but maybe I’m not actually good at it. I usually wake up with one of Honey’s locs in my mouth, but she never minded….”
Bad at cuddling.Riot almost laughed. The problem was that Cass had beenperfect, warm and trusting and completely unaware that every small movement was systematically dismantling Riot’s sanity. “You were fine, princess.”
“Then why did you leave?” Cass’s lower lip caught between his teeth, worrying at it in a way that made Riot want to bite it himself. “Is it because I smell bad? I know I’m sweaty. Or—” His eyes widened with sudden horror. “Can you sense it? My spiritual imbalance? Brother Matthias always said truly evolved people could perceive deficiency in others, and you’re not Elysian but maybe Berserkers can tell when someone is—”
“Cass.” Riot cut him off before the spiral could get worse. “You don’t smell bad. And I can’t sense your ‘spiritual imbalance’ because there’s no such thing.”
“Then why?”
Because you kept pressing against me in your sleep and I was about to flip you over and make you cry those pretty tears again.
“Because I needed some space,” Riot said instead. “It wasn’t about you.”
Cass didn’t look convinced. He hugged his knees to his chest, making himself small, and Riot could practically see him filing this away as another rejection. Another failure. Another piece of evidence that something was wrong with him.
I’m going to find everyone who made him feel this way and I’m going to break them.
The thought wasn’t idle fantasy. It was tactical planning.
“Princess, look at me.”
Cass raised his eyes, and the vulnerability there hit Riot like a fist to the sternum. All that trust, aimed at someone who’d spent the last six hours white-knuckling a chair to keep from climbing back into bed with him.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I moved because I needed to, not because of anything you did. Understand?”
