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"You come here," she counters, her eyes challenging me, her gaze sweeping over me with a predatory intensity that makes the air between us feel electric.

I go there.

This is not the vestibule. The vestibule was desperation—two people clinging to each other in the dark, terrified by the rubble and the silence. This is different. We have choices here. Six chambers. Warm water. An unlocked route back to the gate. Enough floor between us for either person to stand up and walk away.

Neither of us moves to leave.

Claire's hands are still taped from the ambush, the fabric grayed with dust and stained with the rust-color of dried blood where her skin split. When she reaches for me, I catch one of her hands, turning it palm-up. I trace the edge of the tape, my thumb grazing the raw skin beneath. The contrast of the rough adhesive against her softness sends a jolt of heat straight to my gut.

She gives me a look, her breath hitching. "Darius."

"I am looking."

"You've looked."

I check the other hand anyway, my fingers lingering on her wrist, feeling the rapid, drumming beat of her pulse. It’s a habit of protection, yes, but it’s also an excuse to touch her, to feel the heat radiating off her skin. Her fingers flex impatiently against mine, a silent demand.

"Finished?"

"Yes."

"Good."

She uses that same hand to hook into my collar and yank me down.

The kiss is a collision. There are no questions left to answer. Her mouth is hot, her tongue sliding against mine with an urgency that mirrors the throb in my groin. Her taped fingers are rough against the back of my neck, pulling me closer, dragging me into her. Within seconds, the Jalshagar markings beneath my clothes ignite, pulsing with a rhythmic, searing heat that burns through the fabric.

Claire feels it. Her hand stills on my chest, her palm pressing against the glowing lines.

"There," she whispers, her voice a low, wrecked sound.

"You knew they would."

"I knew." Her thumb slides over the line of the marking, tracing the heat. "Knowing isn't the same as feeling it happen."

She pushes my shirt aside, exposing the marking on my throat. She follows the line with two fingers, tracing the path down to the fork crossing my shoulder. The instant she touches the junction, a sharp, electric wave of pleasure slams through me, stealing the air from my lungs. I let out a low groan, my head snapping back.

Her eyes narrow, dark with curiosity and lust. "That one."

"Claire," I warn, though it sounds more like a plea.

"Was that a complaint?"

"No."

"Then I'm conducting research."

She bends, her lips pressing firmly against the fork of the markings. The sensation is catastrophic—a physical spark merged with a psychic surge that makes my vision blur. I stop having useful objections.

The rest of the clothes are stripped away with a frantic, desperate efficiency. There is no elaborate discovery left, only the staggering reality of her bare skin against mine. She carries new bruises from the ambush—deep purples and yellows along one hip and high across her ribs. The sight of them makes my heart ache, and my hands slow, my touch becoming reverent, almost tentative, as I navigate the damaged skin.

Claire catches my wrist when my caution becomes too clinical. She guides my hand down, pressing my palm flat against the heat of her thigh, sliding me further inward.

"Here," she says.

The word is a command, quiet and absolute. It strips away the last of my defenses.

The sleeping alcove is wide and warm, the slate beneath us holding a deep, stored heat that seeps into our skin. Claire settles over me first, her bad knee positioned carefully outside the narrowest part of the alcove. I instinctively reach to stabilize her hip as she shifts, my fingers digging into the soft curve of her flesh.