Eli had braced himself for the shouting. He'd pictured Kairo's black eyes narrowing, that razor voice cutting him down, the dagger ripped away in a single, efficient motion.
He'd expected anger. Reprimand. Anything to stop him from doing something stupid.
What he didn't expect was how Kairo moved.
There was no shout. No moment of hesitation.
The hunter's fingers closed around Eli's wrist like iron and ice. Warm blood slicked between their palms, but Kairo didn't flinch. He held on like a keel in a storm.
For the briefest second their eyes met.
In Kairo's face—so rarely readable—Eli dared to see something other than command: a quick, dark flash that could have been respect, or the grim acceptance of a man who'd chosen a cost and would pay it himself.
"Seven hundred milliliters," Eli managed, voice raw and low. "Only that. No more."
Kairo's jaw twitched. One clipped nod. "I know."
Then the pull started.
