It’s not a question. It’s him repeating it like he’s testing how it sounds.
I inhale slowly, trying to recover. “I’ve been around powerful people.”
His gaze doesn’t soften. “That’s not what you said.”
I clench my jaw.
I can feel it happening. I can feel his attention sharpening, focusing, like a predator catching a scent.
I hate that my pulse jumps.
I force myself to shrug. “It was a figure of speech.”
Orpheus doesn’t move. He just watches me.
“You know the etiquette,” he says quietly.
My stomach drops.
“What?”
“The way you hold yourself,” he continues. “The way you speak without groveling but without disrespect. The way you didn’t flinch when I told you who my father is. The way you recognized the difference between mercy and strategy.”
I keep my face blank, but my hands feel cold.
“You’re observant,” I manage.
“I’m old,” he replies. “I notice patterns.”
I swallow hard. “So, what are you saying?”
His gaze drifts over me slowly, not sexual, not hungry. Assessing.
“I’m saying you’re not as ordinary as you want to be,” he says.
A chill moves through me.
I force myself to lift my chin. “Maybe I just read too many books.”
For the first time, a faint curve touches his mouth.
“Maybe,” he says, and something in his tone tells me he doesn’t believe it. Not for a second.
But he doesn’t press.
He lets the silence sit, heavy and charged, until I can breathe again.
Then he speaks, softer.
“I’m walking you home.”
I should argue. I should insist I can do it myself. I should keep distance, keep boundaries, keep things professional.
But the truth is, I can still feel the alley in my bones.
I can still feel the fear that hit when I thought he was about to be attacked.
I can still feel the way the vampires looked at me like I was something to be taken.
