He chuckled, shook his head. “So basically you’re proposing to use yourself as bait?”

I didn’t really like the way that sounded—“you’re proposing to be the fierce, redheaded warrior that you are” would have been better—but it was an accurate summary of what I’d said. “In a manner of speaking, I guess I am.”

He took a step forward. “I said you were recklessly brave, didn’t I?”

He was close enough that I had to look up to see his face. And God, what a face. I could have said Liam Quinn wasn’t the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. But that would have been a lie. And I could have said I didn’t want to step forward and sink into his arms. That would have been a lie, too.

“Yes.”

He stared down at me, brow furrowed. His eyes had darkened again, emotions warring against the background of deepest blue.

And while he looked at me, while we looked at each other, time slowed, and the moment seemed to stretch in front of us, full of promise.

Liam dropped his head, lashes falling as he moved toward me, stepped into me, his hands suddenly on my cheeks, thumbs stroking my face, the line of my jaw.

My heartbeat stuttered, sped. I closed my eyes, lips parted with wanting, waiting for that moment of electricity, of connection. His lips hovered, only a moment away from mine. Anticipation and desire built, rose, spun together.

He dropped his forehead to mine. “Jesus, Claire.” His voice was rough with desire, and I braced myself for the onslaught.

But then he stepped back.

My eyes flashed open. The loss of his body chilled me; I felt like I’d been doused with ice.

He pulled a hand across his jaw, his breath rough with unsatisfied longing.

“Liam?”

He shook his head, but not quite steadily. “I’m sorry, but this can’t happen. I just can’t afford you. But if things had been different . . .”

I stared at him. “What does that mean?”

The clock struck two. Liam lifted his gaze to the clock, then looked at me. “It’s late. You need sleep, and I need to go. Now.”

And with that, Liam Quinn slipped into the Quarter again.

CHAPTER TWELVE

So much of living after a war was adapting to what remained, figuring out how to build things you were familiar with out of what you had.

There was a brass mail slot in the store’s front door. Since it was so hard to keep in touch without phones or computers, and mail delivery wasn’t exactly efficient in the Zone, I let folks use the slot and a vintage cubby to share messages, trade goods. Customers—and that was the one catch: They had to be customers—could put their names on the cards in the cubby’s metal label holders. It gave them comfort, a way to connect with people in a world that was so different from the one that had come before.

So, the next morning, after a night of what could only loosely be called “sleep,” I picked up the messages and small packages that had been slipped into the slot overnight, and welcomed the handful of Containment agents who’d come by for provisions. Containment fed them, of course, but they’d buy an extra bar of soap or some sugar now and again.

While they perused my inventory, I took the stack of messages to the cubby, began to file them.

One was for me—a note from Gunnar on his own letterpressed stationery, imported from outside the Zone: “Emme is awake and coping. She didn’t see the wraiths before they attacked her, and the attack itself is mostly a blur, so no luck there. Thank you for last night. Love you.”

I was glad to hear that she was safe, but disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to confirm whether we were dealing with the same wraiths. At least not that way.