He nods, the motion curt. “I’m sorry I couldn’t kill him first.”

“The first-year? Or Aetos?”

“Both.” He doesn’t smile at my attempt at a joke. “Let’s get you clean and wrapped up.”

“You can’t go around killing cadets. You’re an officer now.”

“Watch me.”

“What’s it like at Samara?” I ask him hours later as I sit cross-legged on my bed, bathed and choking down the bowl of soup he brought up for me from the mess in the main campus. Every swallow hurts, but he’s right—I can’t afford to weaken myself by not eating.

“Look at you, asking questions.” A corner of Xaden’s mouth rises as he leans back, taking over the armchair in the corner of my room, sharpening his daggers on a strap of leather. He ditched the flight leathers while I was in the bath, but he somehow looks even better in his new uniform. I can’t help but notice he didn’t add patches to this one, either. He’d only ever worn his wingleader insignia and wing designation while he was in the quadrant.

“I’m not fighting with you about your question game tonight.” I shoot a glare his way, spotting the two tomes Jesinia loaned me on the bookshelf next to him. But any thought of telling him about my research disappeared at his reminder that I’m not granted the full truth when it comes to him.

“Wanting you to ask what you want to know isn’t a game. You and me? Not a game.” He drags his blade over the leather again and again. “And Samara is… different.”

“The one-word answers aren’t going to cut it.”

He looks up from his work. “I have to prove myself all over again at what’s arguably the cruelest outpost we have. It’s…annoying.”

I crack a smile. Leave it to Xaden to be annoyed. “Do they treat you differently?”

“You mean because of this?” He taps the side of his neck with the flat of his blade, touching the relic.

“Yes.”

He shrugs. “I think the last name does it more than the relic. The older riders are easier on Garrick, which I’m thankful for.”

I set the spoon down in the bowl. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing worse than what I expected, and my signet’s enough to give most of them pause.” He puts the leather strap into his rucksack, then sheaths his last blade as he stands. “You know what it’s like. People judge you by your last name all the time.”

“I think it’s safe to say you have it worse.”

“Only within the borders.” He flips my armor over where it’s drying on the back of my desk chair, then crosses the room to sit on the end of my bed. It’s not as big as his was last year, but there’s room for both of us if I ask him to stay. Which I won’t. It’s hard enough to be this close and not kiss him. Sleeping next to him? I’d break for sure.

“Fair point.” I put the bowl on my nightstand and pick up my brush, my gaze drifting to the door when I hear Rhiannon’s voice in the hallway a second before she shuts her door. Which reminds me… “Did you ward my room from visitors before you left?”

He nods. “It’s warded against sound, too.” He crosses his ankle over his knee, keeping his boots off my bed. “One-way, of course. You can hear what’s going on out there, but they can’t hear what’s going on in here. Figured you might like your privacy.”

“For all the people I can’t bring in?”

“You can bring in whomever you want,” he counters.

“Really?” Sarcasm drips from my voice as I drag the brush through my damp hair. “Because Rhiannon tried to walk in and ended up on the other side of the hallway.”

The corners of his mouth lift into a glimpse of a smile. “Tell her to hold your hand next time. The only way in here is by touching you.”

“Wait.” I pause, then finish pulling the brush through my snagged ends. “So you didn’t ward it for only you and me?”

“It’s your room, Violet.” His eyes track the movement of the brush through my hair, and the way his fingers curl in his lap makes me swallow. Hard. “The room is warded to let in whomever you pull through.” He clears his throat and shifts his weight as I finish another pass with the brush. “And selfishly, me.”

I fucking love your hair. If you ever want to bring me to my knees or win an argument, just let it down. I’ll get the point.

My breath catches at the memory. Has it really only been a few months since he said that? It feels simultaneously like forever…and yesterday.

“You warded my room for complete privacy for me and anyone I want to bring in?” I lift my eyebrows at him. “In case I feel like…”

“Doing whatever you want.” The heat in his gaze makes my breath catch. “No one will hear a thing. Even if you wreck an armoire.”

I fumble the brush and it falls into my lap, but I quickly recover. Kind of. “This particular one seems pretty solid. Nothing like the flimsy piece I had in my room last year.” The one we accidentally turned into firewood the first time we’d gotten our hands on each other.

“Is that a challenge?” He glances at the furniture. “Because I guarantee we can take it down once you’re healed.”

“No one’s ever fully healed around here.”

“Good point. Just say the words, Violet.” The way he looks at me is enough to raise my temperature a few degrees. “It only takes three.”

Three words?

Oh, like hell am I going to tell him that I want him. He already has too much power over me.

“Can and should are two different things,” I manage to say. My willpower when it comes to Xaden is pure shit. One touch, and I’ll be back in his arms, accepting whatever he deems as enough of the truth instead of the full access I deserve…no, need. “And we definitely shouldn’t.”

“Then tell me how your week was instead.” He changes topics smoothly.

“I couldn’t watch them all,” I admit. “At Parapet. I tried, but I…couldn’t.”

“You were on the tower?” His brow furrows.

“Yes.” I shift, tucking my sore knees to the side. “I promised Liam I’d help Sloane, and I couldn’t do that from the courtyard.” A sarcastic laugh escapes my lips. “And she fucking hates me.”

“It’s impossible to hate you.” He stands and walks to where his rucksack is leaned up against the wall. “Trust me. I tried.”

“Trust me. She does. She actually wanted to challenge me at assessment.” I lean back against my headboard. “She blames me for Liam’s death. Not that she’s wrong—”

“Liam’s death wasn’t your fault,” he interrupts, his body going rigid. “It was mine. If Sloane wants to hate anyone, she can aim it all right here.” He taps his chest as he turns, setting his rucksack on the desk.

“It wasn’t your fault.” It’s not the first time we’ve had the argument, and something tells me it won’t be the last. I guess there’s enough guilt for two to carry.

“It was.” He opens the top and rifles through the bag.