The riders' quadrant walls clung to the winter chill. It was 1 a.m. Frost lined the windows, and even Xaden Riorson—shadow-wielding Wingleader—felt the cold as he stood against your door. You hadn’t been at dinner, in the ring, or the Archives. When he found your friends by the fire, he asked, then muttered something sharp and stalked off. Now, shadows curled at his feet as he waited.

The door opened. You stepped out in a towel, steam clinging to your skin. Xaden stiffened. You were showering at 1am, in freezing winter.

“What in all seven hells are you doing?”