The music trails away, forgotten. He pushes me into the soft velvet. I kiss him fiercely. His fingers run through my short, blue hair. I dance my fingers along the skin of his neck, unbuttoning his shirt. He helps me, shrugging off his coat and pulling his shirt over his head. He has a swimmer’s body, with hardly any fat to speak of, his abs a rippled six-pack. I touch his skin, and he shivers.

A little notebook peeks out of his jacket, and attached to it, I see a small datapod. I half-lid my eyes as I study it. I want it. It’s important enough he keeps it on him at all times in the inside pocket of his jacket, where no one can get it.

He soon distracts me, at least somewhat, from the thought of the little paper book. His lips move from mine, down to my neck. I arch against him, my nerves on fire. The adrenaline of the recent Test is still pumping through my body. I pull him against me, nipping his neck with my teeth.

Those long, nimble fingers work at the zipper at the hollow of my neck. Within moments, I’m exposed to him from neck to navel. He traces the scar down my sternum with his fingertip. It reminds me uncomfortably of Nazarin.

His fingertip moves from the scar to circle my left breast, teasing the nipple until it stands upright. He bends his head and I stare up at the ceiling, gasping slightly.

Bang.

We both start. His head jerks up, and I squirm to a sitting position.

The sound came from downstairs. It sounded like a gunshot. People scream.

“Was that—?” I start, but then my question is answered by an outpouring of screams, more gunshots, and the stampede of fleeing footfalls.

He jumps away, reaching into a cabinet under the alcohol bar and drawing out a weapon and a bulletproof Kalar jumpsuit. I have a feeling they are hidden in every room. What that means cuts through the fear for a moment: this is a man who always expects an attack.

Ensi wriggles from the remainder of his clothes, his lithe body catching the light before he covers it with the black fabric. He hefts the gun, not quite pointing it at me.

“Were you the distraction?” he asks me. There’s a tightness to his voice. Is he hurt by the possibility? How close are he and my sister? “Do you know who’s down there?”

“No.” I don’t have to feign surprise.

A long pause.

“No,” I repeat, meeting his eyes, willing him to believe it. “I have no idea what’s going on. But I’m scared shitless.” I’m shivering, folding in, covering my naked torso with my arms.

The tension bleeds from his shoulders. “Stay here.” He starts to leave, then turns back, grabs another gun and tosses it to me.