“Are you trying to cheat, Nina?” Nero asks, pulling my attention back to him, and I set aside the strange sensation beginning to crawl up my spine.
I step closer to him, and his eyes narrow when there’s barely a step between us. I lift my hand, flexing my index and middlefingers between us, silently asking him to lean closer. Nero dips his head.
For a second, we share the same breath.
“I heard a lot of things about the auction today,” I say softly, my voice trapped between us—just like his gaze. “One of them was about Mrs. Eudora’s desserts. Five trays of baklava.”
My voice barely reaches a whisper, and Nero’s lips stretch into a wicked little smile.
“And what did you hear about that,Little Fae?”
I don’t know whether it’s his tone or the nickname that paints my cheeks red—but something does.
“That no one ever wants them, and you or your friends end up buying them at the end of the auction as a last resort.”
“A last resort, huh?”
“I’m not terrible enough to repeat the exact words I heard,” I declare firmly.
Then Nero throws his head back in an uninhibited, completely unexpected laugh. I blink, watching the way his shoulders shake and his entire face reacts to it, before he shakes his head and steps back.
“Well, would you look at that.”
“That I’m not that terrible?” I ask, offended.
“That this little fairy isn’t all colors and sweetness.”
I roll my eyes despite myself.
“I told you, Nero. I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”
***
“Thank you,” I say when Nero hands me a glass of champagne. I take a small sip, savoring the flavor spreading across my tongue and the sensation of the bubbles dancing in my mouth.
I lift my eyes from the glass to find Nero watching me, as he has for most of the night whenever we’re alone. His gaze is attentive, almost curious.
After our ridiculous exchange of confessions, I’ve discovered that being in his company is far easier than I ever imagined.
I spent so many years wondering what it would be like to talk to him. But all my imagination had to work with were stolen childhood glances and scraps of information from newspapers and magazines. My assumptions were far from the truth.
Nero may not have Drako’s charisma or Apollo’s lightness, but he certainly isn’t the cold, inaccessible man common opinion paints him to be. He’s funny, attentive, and just as much of a gossip as any other resident of Khione.
We spend the last hour discussing every bit of gossip I heard throughout the day, interrupted only by people who occasionally approach, seeking the attention of the association’s director.
Most of them ignore me, which is strange—just like the persistent sense of whispers around us.
But one thing tonight has made very clear about Nero Zanthos: he doesn’t like to share. Not in a bad way—it’s just that he’s magnetic enough that once he’s in front of you, it becomes impossible to want to focus on anyone or anything else.
Every time I try to divert my attention to understand the murmurs spreading through the hall, Nero quickly gives me something else to think about—or laugh about—almost like a superpower. I can’t deny that I like it.
“What is it?” I squint. “Am I dirty?” I lift my thumb to the corner of my mouth, wiping away something I can’t see, and Nero shakes his head.
“I’m just looking at you.”
“Why?” I ask suspiciously, and he tilts his head, immediately slipping into the sideways smile I’m starting to think is his favorite.
“Because you’re my date.”
