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"You already knew."

"I like confirming results."

His hand snaps to the back of my neck, hauling my face up to meet his. "Engineer."

"Always."

Then he kisses me—a deep, possessive claim—and shifts us toward the bench.

There is no room for elegance. The bench is narrow, built for waiting, not for this. We strip away our gear with feverish urgency, shoving packs aside and spreading his coat over the slate because the alternative is bare, cold stone. Darius sits first, his bad leg extended.

I move between his knees, my thighs brushing against his, the friction of our clothes a teasing torture. For a moment, we both freeze. The bond has become too clear. I can feel the exact point where his desire meets his terror—the fear that this is the last time he will ever touch me. He wants to memorize the feel of me, and I can feel my own heart echoing that same, desperate need.

His hand slides up my side, his palm hot, and stops at my waist. I cover it with mine, squeezing tight.

"No memorials yet," I whisper.

His eyes lift to mine, raw and exposed. "I wasn't⁠—"

"You were."

The bond makes lying pointless. Darius gives up, his fingers digging into my hip. "Stay here, then."

"I am."

I settle over him, sliding my underwear down and letting the cool air hit my skin for only a second before I lower myself onto his hardness. The first moment of contact stops us both.

It isn't just the physical sensation; it's the Jalshagar bond. His awareness opens beneath mine, and for one disorienting second, I feel the room from two places—the pressure of the bench beneath my knees and, simultaneously, the weight of me pressing down on him; my own ragged breathing and his desperate struggle to maintain control.

I stare at him, my breath hitching. He stares back.

"That is new."

"Yes."

"Problem?"

"I don't know."

I move experimentally, a slow, grinding slide of my hips against his. The answer that tears through the bond makes us both gasp. Darius closes his eyes, his head snapping back against the slate wall.

"Not a problem."

"Good."

I move again, finding a slow, torturous rhythm. There is no need to ask if he feels what I feel. The bond carries the emotional shape of every reaction—the surge of heat when I clench around him, the spike of need when he thrusts upward to meet me. Every movement is a question, and Jalshagar provides the answer in a flood of shared ecstasy.

It is an engineer's nightmare: positive feedback with no regulator.

I find a steady pace above him, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other spread over the glowing fork on his chest. The light pulses beneath my palm, brightening every time he loses another fraction of his restraint.

Darius looks at me as though he is trying to consume me with his eyes. The sheer intensity of it does something dangerous in my chest.

"Stop counting," I whisper.

"I'm not," he rasps, his hands gripping my waist so hard I know there will be marks.

"You are."