Quaritch blinked at her like he’d misheard.

She said it calmly—too calmly—eyes steady, posture relaxed, as if promising violence was no more dramatic than discussing the weather. If he broke her heart, she’d kill him. No qualifiers. No dramatics. Just a statement of fact delivered with unsettling sincerity.

He should have been concerned.

Instead, something twisted low in his chest—surprise first, then a rough, incredulous laugh that slipped out before he could stop it. Of all the reactions he’d expected—anger, threats, warnings—that wasn’t it.

“That’s…,” he started, then paused, reassessing her with new interest. “That’s kinda hot, actually.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t bristle either. Just watched him, measuring whether he was mocking her or understanding her exactly as she meant to be understood.

Quaritch had spent his life around empty threats and loud promises. This wasn’t that. This was devotion sharpened to a blade—affection with teeth, loyalty that didn’t pretend to be gentle.

He shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Hell of a way to say you care.”

Pandora was full of dangers he respected.

Apparently, he’d just added her to the list—and found that he didn’t want to be anywhere else.