“Want to repeat that?” His voice came out quiet and controlled, the kind of controlled that made all three operatives take a step back.
“Now, now.” Mei raised her hands. “No need for unpleasantness. We’re all professionals here.”
“Professional suggests you know what you’re doing,” Riot replied. “Following a pre-heat Omega while making threats against a modded Berserker suggests you’re suicidal or stupid. Maybe both.”
The wiry Beta’s hand moved toward something concealed. His shoulder angle indicated a right-handed draw, probably a knife based on the bulge profile; it would take half a second to close the distance and disarm him if necessary.
“I wouldn’t,” he suggested.
The hand stopped.
“Here’s how this works,” Riot continued. “You stay away from him. You don’t watch him, you don’t follow him, you don’t breathe in his direction. If I see any of you within a block of that hotel, I’ll assume you need immediate correction.”
“And if we don’t feel like following your silly rules?”
Riot’s smile was all teeth. “Then you’ll find out why the Syndicate used to pay me so well.”
He was walking away when he heard Mei’s voice, pitched low, “...territorial about someone who isn’t even yours. Interesting.”
The comment followed him through the rest of his supply run like a splinter under his skin. His hands were shaking as he gathered fever reducers, fresh fruit, and bottled water. Everyminute away from Cass felt like a small betrayal of instincts that he didn’t want to examine too closely.
Not mine. Just a tactical responsibility.
He almost believed it.
By the time Riot made it back to the hotel, his anxiety had reached genuinely uncomfortable levels. He knocked in the agreed pattern and waited for furniture to move. When the door opened, Cass looked worse than an hour ago.
Also, his hair was down.
Riot’s brain short-circuited.
The braids must have come loose while he was gone, or maybe Cass had taken them out because they were uncomfortable. Either way, all that golden hair was spilling over his shoulders in waves, catching the light like something out of a painting. Botticelli’s Venus with fever-bright eyes and flushed cheeks, standing in a dingy hotel room, looking at Riot like he’d hung the moon.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“You came back,” Cass breathed.
“Of course I came back.” Riot pushed past him into the room, mostly because he needed to stop staring. The door. Check the door. Check the windows. Check anything that wasn’t Cass. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I might be dying.” Cass said it matter-of-factly, closing the door and replacing the barricade exactly the way Riot taught him. “Is that normal?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.” Riot unpacked supplies, keeping his back to Cass because looking at him was dangerous. “Your body is trying to cycle after years of suppression. It’s going to be intense.”
Cass accepted the fever reducers without question. “You look upset. Did something happen? Are you angry I let my hair down?”
Riot choked on nothing. “What?”
“Brother Matthias says loose hair is spiritually undisciplined.” Cass touched a golden strand self-consciously. “But the braids were hurting my head and everything feels bad today and I thought maybe since you’re not Elysian you wouldn’t mind, but if it bothers you I can put them back—”
“Princess.” Riot turned, steeling himself against the visual impact. It didn’t help. Cass looked like a fever dream. “Your hair is fine.”
“Are you sure? Because you’re making a face.”
“What face?”
“The face where your whole body goes stiff and you breathe differently.” Cass tilted his head, studying him with that guileless curiosity that kept tearing down Riot’s defenses. “You make it a lot when you look at me. I thought maybe it meant I was doing something wrong.”
You exist. That’s what you’re doing wrong.
