There was no reply, but the armored head tilted slightly, silver gaze fixed on the gun. Slowly, Misha backed up. He lifted the gun to show his finger was well away from the trigger, reengaged the safety, and carefully put the weapon down on the dresser on the other end of the room. Chances were it wouldn’t save him anyway, and if there was even a remote chance that Riley could see him….

“It’s all right,” he said, steadier now even though his heart was still trying to climb out through his throat.

He stepped away from the dresser, from his weapon, against every instinct he had, because this was Riley—had to be Riley—and goddamn it, but Misha would not knowingly point a gun at him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m unarmed, see?” He spread his arms to emphasize his point, put his hands up and tried to smile. “You in there, cowboy?”

He’d better be, because Misha had no idea what to do if he wasn’t. He was so far out of his depth it wasn’t funny. The only thing he knew was that he wouldn’t— couldn’t—give up Riley. God knew where the armor had come from, what had happened to Riley when they’d been separated. Right that moment, Misha didn’t care. He was a methodical person. One problem at the time. He would find out the specifics later, provided he survived this encounter.

“Riley? Talk to me?”

He took another step closer, carefully, arms still up and movements slow so as not to spook the man-creature on the bed. He couldn’t match its speed and he had no desire to go up against those extending blades again.

“Come on, man,” Misha coaxed softly. “You know I won’t hurt you.”

The knight shook his head like a boxer after a particularly nasty hit.

He clenched his fists, tensed, and then suddenly relaxed his stance. The armor disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. It melted into Riley’s skin as though it had never been there, leaving Riley crouched naked on the bed.

The silver glaze over his eyes took the longest to vanish, but finally it bled away into a more natural gray-green-bluish hue. Eyes like November skies.

Riley’s eyes.

Riley wobbled a little, looking dazed. Then he toppled over backward and sat down hard. He steadied himself with his arms, muscles flexing under smooth skin, his back arching reflexively to ease the strain on his shoulders. His legs splayed open carelessly and it most definitely wasn’t an invitation, but Misha’s Riley-starved body didn’t care, made him sway closer instinctively before he could stop himself. He dragged his gaze up to Riley’s face to see him check out the room, wary and bemused, trying to take in everything at once though his attention kept circling back to Misha.

Riley’s breath stuttered, which made Misha’s pulse rate skyrocket again, then thankfully Riley’s breathing steadied.

“Misha,” he rasped, when he had assessed his situation to the best of his ability. “What the hell?”