The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Only in that Callum looked perfectly unchanged.

“What happened?” Tristan asked again.

“Nothing,” Parisa repeated. “It was just…” She trailed off, and then cleared her throat. “It was nothing.”

“Ah yes, nothing,” Tristan said drily. “Right.”

They reached their rooms, lingering at the start of the corridor as the others filed off to bed. Nico barked something disapproving at Libby—something about “Fowler will fucking live for fuck’s sake”—and then only Tristan and Parisa remained in the hall.

He paused beside her door, hesitating as she opened it.

“I was thinking,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you wanted to—”

“I don’t at the moment,” she said. “Last night was fun, but I don’t really think we should make it a regular thing, do you?”

He bristled. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure it was,” said Parisa. “You’ve just had a near-death experience and now you want to stick your prick in something until you feel better.” Tristan, who was much too English for this conversation, rather resented her choice of words, though she cut him off before he could express his demurral aloud. “It’s evolutionary,” she assured him. “When you come close to death, the body’s natural impulse is procreation.”

“I wasn’t that close to death,” Tristan muttered.

“No? Well, lucky you.” Parisa’s expression hardened, her eyes darting to Callum’s bedroom door.

Not that Tristan had doubted it before, but ‘nothing’ had most definitely been ‘something.’

“I thought you liked him,” Tristan commented, and Parisa bristled.

“Who says I don’t?”

“I’m just saying—”

“I don’t know him.”

Tristan contemplated the value of asking a third time.

“Something clearly happened,” he allowed instead. “You don’t have to tell me what it was, I just—”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” She gave him a defensive glance. “How was little miss sunshine?”

“Libby? Fine. Good,” Tristan corrected himself, as it didn’t seem fair not to give her credit. She may not have been able to get out easily without him, but he wouldn’t have gotten out at all without her. “She’s good.”

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Is she?”

Parisa scoffed. “You should see the inside of her head.”

Tristan was already quite certain that was a place he had no interest in being. “I doubt we’ll be friends,” he said uncomfortably, “but at least she’s useful.”

There it was again. Useful.

The one thing he was not.