He wasn’t supposed to be here.

She wasn’t supposed to be in his room.

And yet.

Dain’s back hit the door hard enough to rattle the hinges, his mouth already on hers like she’d siphoned the last bit of sense from him. Maybe she had. Maybe she was doing it now — draining him of logic, of reason, of restraint. He didn’t care.

Because her fingers were fisted in the front of his uniform, and she was kissing him like they’d never get another chance. Like she hated him for wanting this. Like she hated herself for wanting it too.

Which meant she was going to ruin him.

Gods, she already was.

“You’re not listening,” she muttered against his mouth, breath ragged as she shoved him back a step.

“I am,” Dain growled, grabbing her hips, walking her backward. “You’re just always wrong.”

She made a low, dangerous sound that went straight to his blood — and he was grinning even as she pushed at his chest, fighting him like she didn’t want this, like she hadn’t started it. He pinned her to the wall instead, letting her feel every inch of how much she’d undone him.

“I hate you,” she whispered, even as her thighs parted for him.

“You hate that you can’t control me.”

“Someone like you,” she said, voice venomous and soft, “shouldn’t have this much power.”

“Funny,” he murmured, lips brushing her throat. “I was about to say the same thing about you.”

Her signet flared — crackling at the edges of her magic — but Dain didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She could pull from him, and she had, more than once. Training. Testing. Pushing.

He was the only one who could withstand it. The only one who didn’t drop when she tapped that deadly siphon of hers and fed from his power.

“You need to train,” he said lowly, mouth moving along her jaw. “You’re sitting on a godsdamned arsenal and pretending it’s not there.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re not. You’re ignoring it.”

She shoved at him again. “I said I’m handling it.”

“And I said you’re full of shit.”

The moment snapped.

She surged up and kissed him — not sweet, not soft, but with enough heat to melt the damn walls. He groaned into it, hands going to her thighs, hoisting her up with ease.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he said, already walking her to the bed.

“I know what to do,” she muttered, tugging at his shirt, breathless and annoyed.

Gods, she was maddening.

And he was addicted.

He laid her down, not gently, and followed her onto the mattress like he was already hers. Maybe he was. Maybe he always had been. Dain didn’t care — not when she looked up at him like that, cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, magic pulsing just beneath her skin.

He braced a hand beside her head, their foreheads almost touching.

“You’re not a weapon anyone’s allowed to wield,” he said, voice rough. “You’re not theirs. You’re not the enemy’s. You’re not even the quadrant’s.”

Her eyes locked on his.

A breath. A silence.

And then—

“Whose am I, then?” she asked, voice like a damn sin.

He kissed her.

Not to answer.

To claim.