Riley hesitated, knowing he had little chance of holding his own against Misha no matter what, but McClane just scoffed at his worries.

Doesn’t matter if he’s down there or standing upright. We’re way faster and stronger than he is. You say the word and we kick his ass.

He must’ve picked up on Riley’s desire to be covered, because there was a sensation of warmth and Misha’s eyes dipped down again and widened. Riley glanced down too. Instant metal pants, loose and comfortable, no spikes or blades anywhere. Nice. Also, so much for deniability.

McClane made a sound not unlike someone clearing their throat, chagrined. Yeah, about that? The deniability thing? Not an issue. I almost took off his head when I came to; he’s seen us in full battle gear.

Awesome, Riley thought. His mafia killer ex knew about the alien armor system. Just what they needed.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t about the bag?” he asked, in dire need of a distraction and thus latching on to the one piece of information that didn’t seem fraught with potential trauma. “Where is my bag? For that matter, where’s my truck? Did you drive my truck?” A horrible suspicion dawned. “Did you let Andrej drive my truck?” His poor truck didn’t deserve that. It had always served Riley well, not least because he made a point of keeping other people from touching any important parts, especially madmen like Andrej Naryshkin and his Demolition Derby approach to driving.

Misha got up slowly, fingering his nose and avoiding Riley’s gaze. He cleared his throat. Shifted a bit, clearly uncomfortable, and managed to move a little closer to Riley in the process.

“We had to blow up your truck.”

So much for no trauma. Riley’s voice rose. “You blew up my truck?”

Misha shrugged. “Couldn’t take it with us, the area was crawling with military. We got your stuff, though. And I saved your hat,” he added, and he sounded so proud about it Riley’s traitorous heart did a little stutter-jig.

Riley clenched his jaw and swallowed against the dryness in his throat again, angry at himself because he should’ve dealt with this, should’ve been immune to Misha’s attempts to please him. Damn it, he was usually better at this. He’d cut off his own family to the point where he could talk to his sister on the phone and feel nothing but a blunt sort of ache. Putting his feelings for Misha into perspective should’ve been a piece of cake. He shouldn’t still want the man so badly, body and soul.

Hit him again, McClane suggested helpfully. The last time felt good.

“Jesus Christ,” Riley cursed, and he couldn’t have said whether it was aimed at McClane or Misha or himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, so disoriented and irked he wanted to crawl out of his own skin, and when he lowered his hand again he glared at Misha. “I should’ve broken your fucking jaw.”