Kaz didn’t know how Inej saw through him so well, how she knew exactly how to press him so that he was just beyond the borders of his comfort; perhaps it was the intimacy of having done so many heists together, reading each other’s movements as though their bodies were their own secret language, or perhaps her preternatural ability to discern others’ weaknesses and vulnerabilities extended to him, too, the Bastard of the Barrel laid bare before her.

However Inej knew, she was in the mood to challenge him today: He’d removed his gloves and his coat for her, and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves so that his forearms were bare—and she still wanted more from him.

She perched on the windowsill, sunlight slanting down around her, like she had done so many times before, when they were Dirtyhands and the Wraith, not Kaz Brekker, trying-to-be-better, and Captain Ghafa, scourge of slavers; she waited for him to join her on the windowsill, patiently sharpening her knives with a whetstone, stopping every so often to feed the damned crows that fluttered to join her at the windowsill; Kaz ground his knuckles against the head of his cane as tremors started in his hands, but he moved, with effort, to stand at her side until his shoulder brushed against hers, and the smile she gave him was brighter than the sunlight that shone in her eyes.