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The bodega door opened, and a woman pushed past us, juggling a toddler and a bag of groceries.

Zaq cursed and pulled me into the alley. “You want to have this out? Fine.”

I blew out a breath. “Not out here. Let’s go back to the squat.”

I waited for him to start walking and followed on his heels like a sheepdog with one sheep. Zaq tolerated that for about three seconds before dropping back and putting an arm around my shoulders. I gave his arm—and his shaggy-haired and somehow-still-sexy self—the side-eye.

“We’re supposed to be ‘friends,’ remember?” he said out of the corner of his mouth. “Act like you like me.”

“Right.” I leaned into him, pretending to play up to him. But it wasn’t all pretense, because honestly? I leaned into Zaq because it felt good. I turned my head and took a surreptitious sniff of his spicy scent.

I was still pissed that he’d snuck out like that. But he’d come back. I’d been right to trust him.

My whole body went loose with relief. I wouldn’t have to inform Crow he’d gone AWOL.

Zaq didn’t know—or maybe he didn’t care—what a tightrope we were walking here. One misstep, and he was dead. And maybe me along with him.

Back in the room, I dragged off my hat and scraped my fingers through my sweaty hair. “All right. Talk. Where did you go?”

He fingered his stubbled chin like he was deciding what to tell me. Or whether to tell me anything.

“Look,” I said, “this isn’t going to work if we can’t trust each other.”

“But I can’t trust you,” he said almost gently. “Can I?”

That hurt. “I gave you my promise that I wouldn’t stake you.”

“Actually, you didn’t. Not in so many words.”

I thought back and he was right. I opened my mouth, but he crossed to me and laid his hand over my lips.

“Don’t say anything. That way you won’t have to break your word if it comes down to it.”

“Bu…”

“No. Don’t.” He pressed harder. “I mean it. Okay?”

I heaved a frustrated breath. “Okay.”

He took his hand away.

“But I wouldn’t break my word.”

“Quiet.” He set a finger back on my mouth.

Our eyes met. I felt a jolt, and suddenly, the anger and distrust between us morphed to sexual tension. The air almost crackled.

Zaq took his finger from my mouth. But instead of moving away, he combed his fingers through my hair, tucking a strand behind my ear, playing with the ends.

He curved his fingers around my nape. “Your hair is so pretty. Like sunlight in Greece. Or the Caribbean.”

His husky tones rumbled through me like a purr. I wanted to rub my head against his palm like a cat.

But the discipline instilled in me from a young age made me push at his arm.

His eyes sparked with something I couldn’t interpret—aggression? possessiveness?—and his fingers tightened on my nape. Then he exhaled and released me.

I stepped back, trying to put some distance between us, but came up short against the wall. Zaq moved with me like we were partners in a slow, sensual dance.

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