She doesn’t respond. But this time, she doesn’t argue either.
This was reckless. But I couldn’t hold myself back.
And that’s how I know I’ve just fucked myself over by agreeing to babysit the nixie beside me.
6
MARA
The silence in the car feels louder than it should.
I don’t ask what he did. I don’t need to. The copper scent of blood clings to him, filling the space between us. Faint. Cleaned away, but not forgotten.
I didn’t see it, but I know. Because that’s how the men in our world deal with those who overstep. He didn’t say a word when he got back in. Just sat down, calm as winter, and motioned for the driver to start the car.
I wrap my arms around myself, pressing my back into the seat as we speed toward the airport. I should feel vindicated. Protected, maybe. But mostly, I feel…tight. Like something inside me has been twisted and won’t let go.
He didn’t even use my name. Just saidwhat’s under my protection.
I don’t know what that makes me. A briefcase? A pawn?
Still, I haven’t felt this safe in weeks.
By the time we reach the private airport, the sky is stained in that deep purple-gray haze just before full dark. His car drives right up to the jet—sleek, matte black, and absolutely ridiculousin the most expensive way. The kind of thing my brothers would drool over.
Nicolo steps out first, a blur of tailored black and cold command. One of his men—tall, young, stupid—glances at me a little too long. Nicolo doesn’t miss it. He never misses anything.
“If you like your eyes in their sockets,” he growls, low and quiet, “keep them off her.”
The man immediately looks away, face pale. Nicolo doesn’t even break stride. Just climbs the steps onto the plane without a backward glance. I follow.
Inside, it’s beautiful. Quiet. Everything is leather and crystal and soft golf light. I sink into one of the armchairs in the main cabin while he disappears toward the back. A second later, he reappears.
“There’s a room in the back,” he says, voice clipped. “If you want to sleep. There’s a change of clothes.”
I blink. “Did you pick them out?”
He doesn’t answer.
I smile, but stay put, watching him slide into the seat across from me. He pulls a laptop from a slim black case, sets it on the polished table, and adjusts the cuffs of his shirt like a man preparing for war. Then…he puts on glasses.
Actual glasses.
God help me.
He catches me staring. “What?”
“Do you have a Kindle?”
He reaches into a drawer beside him, pulls it out, and hands it to me without a word.
Of course he has a Kindle. Of course it’s fully charged. I flick through the first few titles: business books, something in Italian, some dense nonfiction about political collapse.
Giving up on recommendations, I search for Maria Luis’sSworn. A dark romance. Age gap. Toxic and taboo as hell. I trynot to grin as I open it to chapter one and settle deeper into the chair.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him typing. Methodical. Efficient. All sharp fingers and silver rings flashing against the keyboard. His glasses slide slightly down his nose, and he pushes them back up without missing a beat.
God, he’s annoyingly attractive.
