The immediate derision in his expression tells me I’ve said something wrong. “Unavoidable intoxication from the infusion of aether I receive when performing a duty I require is one thing. This”—he nods at the glass—“would be recreational. It wouldn’t—” He pauses, inhales, and sits back from the table. “It’s not a good idea.”

I frown. “Why not? If it’s temporary—”

“Because,” he says sharply, “I don’t need it.”

“Oh, this was a mistake.” Alice says abruptly, staring down at her halfway finished drink. She jumps out of her seat and pulls at my arm until I stumble out of my chair alongside her. “We still need to use the ladies’ room. We’ve been holding it for two hours.”

Sel stands. “You can’t go alone.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“I think it would be obvious. I’ll escort you both.”

Which is how Sel ends up leading us through a throng of people along the wall until we stand in front of three halls made of shipping containers.

“Respite. Desires. Delight.” Alice blinks at the signs overhead. “Lot going on back here.” Other guests weave around us, walking confidently down the hallways. “Do one of those mean ‘bathroom’?” she asks.

Standing up on tiptoe, I can just make out shadowed doorways along one hall, lit by red bulbs. “Respite, I think?”

Sel leads us down the Respite hall. As the din of the main room becomes distant, we hear conversations coming from down the passageway. Farther in, we can see that each of the black-framed doors has frosted privacy glass in the middle. At the end of the container, there is a solid black door with WC printed on the exterior.

After knocking, Alice slips inside first. I lean against the exterior wall and close my eyes for a moment, taking a break from the cacophony of the main room. The music is so loud the bass shakes the metal walls of the shipping container, but at least I can think straight.

After a long moment, I feel Sel slide into place beside me, and the line of his body presses into mine. The contact startles me enough that my eyes snap open and I jerk away, losing balance—only to be stabilized by his palm on my lower back. “Thanks,” I murmur. His palm is burning through my shirt, hotter than I remember it being the last time we touched.

“Of course.” When I look up, his eyes are searching my features, roaming to my hairline, my shoulders. His fingers, still pressed against my lower back, twitch, then spread wide over my spine.

“What?”

“My vocabulary does include more adjectives than the word ‘nice,’ ” he murmurs.

I flush. My voice comes out breathy and low. “Could have fooled me.”