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I tightened my hold on my bag. “You said there were men coming for me.”

“Males,” he corrected.

I stared at the back of his head. “Seriously?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You said men.”

“I know what I said.”

“They are Zunatorian,” he said.

“I have noticed.”

“Then males is more accurate.”

I almost stopped walking just to spite him. “You’re correcting my vocabulary while I’m being hunted?”

“Yes.” He must have heard the change in my footsteps because, without looking back, he added, “Do not.”

I kept going.

Not because he told me to. Because I had no idea where I was, who was behind us, or whether the next Zunatorian I asked for help might be one of the people he’d warned me about.

That distinction mattered.

At least to me.

The corridor narrowed ahead, leaving the brighter public docking lanes behind. Walls of dark composite metal replaced polished station panels, and the constant murmur of voices faded into machinery and ventilation.

I looked around. “This is exactly how people get murdered.”

“You said that already.”

“And yet you keep taking me to places that support my theory.”

“We are not at the location yet.”

I stopped.

He took another step before realizing I wasn’t beside him, then turned. Silver-gray eyes settled on me.

“That was not reassuring,” I said.

“It was not intended to be.”

“Do you know how conversations work?”

“Yes.”

“I’m beginning to doubt that.”

His gaze moved past me.

The change was tiny. His entire body went still without appearing tense.

I turned instinctively.

Two Zunatorian males had entered the far end of the corridor. Both wore ordinary travel clothing. Both were enormous.