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Also, about her father’s constant engineering adjustments tothe Venantia Eterna.

She spoke of her role. The burden of it. The endless vigilance. The ache of loyalty to a playboy that was now wearing thin.

He listened without interrupting.

When she fell silent, he leaned forward to the table and opened a cake tin with the flick of his thumb.

Inside, a still-warm, amber-hued confection shone in the firelight, its center soft, edges crisped, dusted in citrus sugar. He cut two slices and handed one to her.

Their fingers brushed, electricity arced between them, sudden, hot, intimate.

‘Sante.’

He acknowledged her gratitude with a chin lift.

Then she took a bite.

The honey cake melted on her tongue. It was fluffy and moist, spiced with cardamon and orange zest.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and a muted moan escaped her lips before she could stop it.

‘Fokk,’ she whispered, licking a syrup smear from her finger. ‘That’s criminal.’

When she opened her eyes again, he was studying her, eyelids at half mast, heat simmering and steady in his gaze.

She swallowed, breath tight.

The air between them thickened, charged, and electrified.

Neither of them moved.

Their eyes met with heat as he leaned over for the bourbon bottle and poured a generous measure each.

Xander leaned back in his chair, tumbler cradled in his hand, the firelight casting soft gold across his jaw.

His eyes, still trained on her with that unflinching focus, softened as he asked, ‘So what do you do when you’re not chasing cartels and stopping flotilla-wide wars?’

Savvine smiled, a little shy now under his heat and his calm.

‘I race,’ she said. ‘Pinnace-class. Modified engines. I’ve been doing it since I was fifteen.’

Xander blinked, surprised and impressed.

‘You’re a racer?’

‘Damn right,’ she said, pride slipping into her voice. ‘Won the Ventura 500K Circuit last cycle. Came second in the Haliton-X Straits Cup before that.’

‘Haliton-X,’ he echoed, adding a whistle. ‘That’s a tight field. Engine compression limits, atmospheric submersion round, canyon slalom final. And still runner up?’

‘Three seconds behind the leader,’ she said with a dry huff. ‘The winner disappeared straightaway after the flag. No name, no log-in, no post-race identity confirmation. The circuit called him a ghost.’

Alexandr took a slow sip of his whiskey, then smirked around the rim of his glass.

‘I know,’ he said, voice teasing, husky.

She narrowed her eyes.

‘You know?’