Summary:

Ilya pulls back then, looks Shane in the eyes, and it takes a lot to make eyes that icy and blue feel warm, but he manages it, somehow. “I am feeling,” he says, voice gone all sly, face suddenly smug, “that we may be, what is it? Compatible, in this way—what do you think?” Shane has to remind himself to breathe, to blink; he nods, an automatic, emphatic yes.