His smile was wider this time. “I’ve never withheld answers from you before. You’re terrible at negotiating.”

In response, Kiva simply pointed to the nearest metal bench. “Sit.”

Jaren chuckled but did as ordered. Naari, however, looked about a second away from shaking an explanation out of him. The dark look on her face . . . Kiva couldn’t help wondering if maybe Naari did have feelings for Jaren, but her own code of ethics wouldn’t allow her to act on them. Or perhaps that same code of ethics meant she was still new enough at Zalindov to struggle with the brutality heaped on the prisoners, and seeing the evidence on Jaren’s face was enough to distress her. If so, she would need to grow a tougher skin, fast, or she wouldn’t survive much longer at the prison.

Whatever the reason, Kiva knew an intervention was needed, so she quickly asked Tipp, “Can you go and tell Mot we won’t need him tonight, but I could still use his help tomorrow?” When the young boy nodded eagerly, Kiva turned to Naari and added, “Would you mind going with him? It’s getting late, and I don’t want him wandering on his own.”

It was a poor excuse, as Tipp often walked around the prison alone, regardless of the hour. But given the attitudes of the guards lately and the growing dissent among the inmates in the wake of Tilda’s arrival—especially the rebels, who already had Tipp in their scopes—what Kiva had said was true, and Naari of all people knew that. The guard nodded her agreement, if stiffly. But that was likely also because she caught Kiva’s subtle wink, a signal that she would try and get Jaren to talk. Even so, Naari’s features remained tight as she left the infirmary with Tipp in tow.

“And here I was thinking you were avoiding me.”

Kiva turned to meet Jaren’s mirthful eyes. “Pardon?”

“You. Me,” he said, waving a hand between them, lest there be any confusion. “We’re rarely alone. I figured that was your doing.”

Inwardly kicking herself for sending away her two buffers, Kiva said, “We’re not alone now,” and looked to where Tilda slept on the far side of the room.

Jaren followed her gaze. “Any improvement with her?”

Kiva knew he wasn’t asking because he cared about Tilda. He’d made his feelings toward the Rebel Queen and her cause abundantly clear. But he did care about Kiva, and he knew that, for whatever illogical-to-him reason, she cared about Tilda. That it even meant anything to him—that she even meant anything to him—had her fighting to ignore the warmth spreading throughout her veins.