“Good morning, Riot.”
He didn’t move away. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—that his leg was half laying on a Berserker, that his morning erection was pressed against Riot’s thigh, that Riot’s hand was still cupping his ass.
“Morning, princess.” Riot’s voice came out wrecked. He cleared his throat and forced his hand to slide up to Cass’s lower back—still too intimate, still wrong, but at least not actively groping him. “How’d you sleep?”
“Really good.” He lifted his head, a bleary smile on his face. “I had good dreams for once. Really good dreams. Usually I have unpleasant ones.” Pink crept into his cheeks. “I don’t remember them exactly, but I woke up feeling... nice.”
What kind of nightmares has Elysian been giving him that this is the first good sleep he can remember?
“I’m glad,” Riot said, and he meant it. Even if the reason made him hate himself.
Cass tilted his head, those earnest eyes studying Riot’s face with the particular intensity he got sometimes. “You didn’t sleep at all, did you?”
“Didn’t need to.”
“That’s not healthy. People need sleep to function properly. Brother Aurelius always said—” He stopped abruptly, eyes going wide. The color drained from his face. “Oh. Oh no.”
Every muscle in Riot’s body went taut. “What?”
“Brother Matthias.” Cass scrambled upright so fast he nearly elbowed Riot in the jaw, his panic sharp enough to taste. “He’s coming this morning for my consultation. What time is it?”
Riot checked the room’s digital clock, his own pulse kicking up in response to Cass’s fear. “Almost ten.”
“He’ll be here any minute.” Cass was already moving, grabbing his robes from the foot of the bed, and the loss of contact left Riot’s front cold and bereft. “You have to—I mean, he can’t find you here. He’ll think I’m being distracted from my spiritual development, and I’m already in trouble for not recruiting anyone, and—”
A sharp knock cut off his rambling.
They both froze. Riot’s hand moved instinctively toward his boot knife, his fingers finding the familiar grip.
“That’s him,” Cass whispered.
Riot was already moving toward the bathroom window, assessing angles. It was barely wide enough for his shoulders—he’d have to exhale completely and go through at an angle.
“I’ll wait for him to leave, then—”
“Don’t wait.” Cass’s voice was tight and wrong. “Just come back in an hour. Brother Matthias will be done by then.”
You’re lying. Your scent just spiked with fear and you’re lying to me. Why are you lying?
“Princess—”
“One hour,” Cass said firmly, small hands pressing against Riot’s chest, pushing him toward the bathroom with surprising strength. “I’ll be fine. Please.”
The knock came again. “Brother Cassiopeia? Are you alright?”
The voice made Riot’s skin crawl—smooth, patient, with the kind of artificial warmth that came from practice rather than feeling. He knew that voice. Handlers used that voice when they were about to do something unpleasant and wanted him to hold still for it.
He wanted to open that door and show Brother Matthias exactly what happened to people who made Cass afraid.
“One hour,” he agreed instead. He squeezed through the window sideways, feeling the frame scrape against his shoulders, and dropped to the alley below.
The impact jarred through his knees, his hips, and his spine. He landed in a crouch, one hand braced against filthy concrete, and stayed there for a moment, breathing through the urge to climb right back up.
Through the thin walls, he heard Cass opening the door.
“Brother Matthias, welcome. Would you like some tea?” The cheerful tone was all wrong. Forced. Riot’s hands curled into fists.
He forced himself to walk away.
