Her grin widened. That flush crept up her neck, the one her fox ears always betrayed by twitching backward. Voss tracked the movement. His mouth curved a fraction more.
He was getting better at this. The flirting. Still calculated, still layered with that analytical precision that made everything he said sound like he'd run probability models first, but there was heat underneath it now. Real heat.
Ivan materialised on her right, moving with silent purpose. He stood like a wall of scarred muscle and cedar smoke and simply held out a canteen. He said nothing; he never needed to. Felicity reached for it, her fingers curling over his massive hand for a heartbeat before she tipped her face up at him with that look—the one that made a man built like a fortress go completely, catastrophically still.
"Thank you," she murmured, and Ivan's throat moved once as he swallowed.
"Drink," he managed. Gravel and restraint are packed into a single syllable.
