The Fever King (Feverwake #1)(76)

Noam followed his gaze back out into the night. “Wouldn’t we?”

“No. Not until it was too late. It takes thousands of years for light to travel from those stars to Earth.” He exhaled softly, breath fogging the window glass. He looked so . . . happy, as if he’d swallowed one of those stars and it illuminated him from within. Noam was struck with the urge to capture this moment somehow, so Dara could relive it.

Noam slid one knee onto the seat cushion next to Dara’s, half expecting Dara to push him away. He didn’t. His hip was feverish hot against Noam’s leg; his throat shifted as he swallowed—but he didn’t move.

“Do you ever think about . . .” Dara started, then broke off. His hand tightened on the armrest, fingertips digging into the upholstery. “All of it—it’s all random chance. The universe. Us. An infinite cascade of chaos. A series of impossible accidents is the only reason we even exist.”

Noam hadn’t thought about it. That was the sort of thing he’d known, on some level, but never felt. Not before Dara said it to him, like that, soft as a secret.

Dara had a way of making even the mundane extraordinary.

If he spoke, the moment might break. In the window light, Dara’s face was glazed with silver. Juxtaposed with the amber lamplight on his hair, he was . . .

Noam had thought Dara was beautiful that night on the beach. That was nothing compared to this.

Dara looked at him, turning his head just enough that Noam could see the curve of his opposite cheek, the glint of both eyes.

If Noam kissed him right now, Dara would think Noam was just like everyone else.

And maybe Noam wasn’t special, but he wanted to be. He had to be more than the next in line of a hundred men who wanted to have sex with Dara Shirazi.

“I’m glad you exist,” he said.

Dara smiled. Looking at that mouth didn’t help Noam’s cause.

Noam forced himself to turn back to the window, staring at Mars glimmering from so very far away and not—not—at Dara.

“I’d better go to bed,” he said, still looking out. He could see Dara, though, a blurry figure in his peripheral vision. “If I don’t now, I never will.”

“Go on, then,” Dara said, not unkindly, and nudged Noam off the chair.

The room felt much colder than it had earlier, now that Dara wasn’t pressed up against him.

Dara’s legs unfolded into the space Noam had opened up, and he leaned forward to pick his book up off the floor, tucking it between his thigh and the armrest. When he met Noam’s eyes, his face was perfectly unreadable.

“I’ll still be here,” Dara said, “if you change your mind.”

Noam didn’t—for better or worse.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN

From time to time, Lehrer brought Noam to his official office for lessons instead of the study. Those days, Dara wasn’t invited, and they didn’t spar—though Noam still had bruises from all the times Lehrer’s magic threw him to the ground like it was nothing. Lehrer worked on business of state and Noam sat with his holoreader open atop crossed legs, uploading everything he could reach from Sacha’s computer two offices down. He didn’t bother sending them to Brennan anymore.

“People are angry,” Linda told Noam as they scooped shepherd’s pie onto dinner trays one Monday. “It’s not in the papers, obviously, but people are furious about Sacha declaring martial law.”

“How angry?” Noam murmured back. “Angry enough to fight back?”

“They do, sugar. We have protests every day now. But it’s hard to protest properly when Sacha’s got his soldiers out on the street keeping the peace and enforcing curfew.” She slapped another dollop of shepherd’s pie onto a plate. “I declare, I don’t know what got into those kids last week, attacking a cop like that. It was supposed to be a peaceful demonstration.”

Good thing they did, though, or else they might’ve been waiting forever for Sacha to find an excuse to declare martial law. Noam was sick of waiting. If they didn’t do something, and soon, people would get complacent.

And it would be Brennan’s goddamn fault when they died for it.

“Speaking of martial law,” Noam said as he shoved his spoon back into the casserole dish. “Does Brennan have some kind of plan, or is he enjoying his cushy new job as government liaison too much to risk losing it?”

Linda shot him a look of disapproval. “Don’t you start with that sass, Noam álvaro. All of us have our roles to play.”

And Noam’s, apparently, was to take all the risks.

Linda’s sharp elbow bumped against his ribs. “I think you have a visitor,” she said and winked.

Noam looked up. Dara stood by the entrance, leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on Noam. Dara wore his cadet uniform, and the refugees gave him a wide berth—as if he might demand to see papers. After a moment, Dara drew one hand out of his pocket and waved.

“Friend of yours?” Linda asked.

“Sort of.”

For Noam, seeing Dara here, outside the context of Level IV and firmly in Noam’s world, was like suddenly losing balance. When he ladled the next serving of pie onto a plate, his hand shook.

Linda nudged him again. “He’s cute.”