I whip my head toward him. I cannot believe he’s given this thought. But more importantly . . . “Why do you say that?”
“He’s older, more experienced,nota prince.”
“What does rank have to do with bedroom skills?”
“Everything. Entitled men feel they’re owed everything and they’re doing you a favor for sleeping with you.”
“Dante isn’t entitled.”
Phoebus side-eyes me. “He’s royalty, sweets.”
“So?”
“So lower your expectations, that’s all.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if he’s not as good as Antoni, it doesn’t matter.”
Phoebus hefts a brow, probably wondering who I’m trying to convince—him or myself.
Twenty
By the time we reach the porticoed entrance of the Acolti manor, I’ve rearranged my concerns by urgency—debt to Timeus, gathering of crows because I do want to rule Luce (if only to browbeat spikey-eared idiots), Dante’s bedroom skills.
I smooth my dress, wishing it were made of silk instead of linen. “Should I tell your parents what happened with Timeus when I ask them for a loan or make up another story?”
Phoebus raises a smile as blinding as the white roses garlanding the columned entrance. “Who said anything about a loan?”
I snap my gaze to Phoebus. “I won’t steal from your parents.”
“It’s not stealing if I bequeath to my best friend a morsel of my inheritance.”
My mouth gapes.
He flicks my chin with his finger to close it. “Prepare to be blinded, Picolina.”
As long as I’m blinded by his parent’s wealth and not their wrath.
On our way across the grounds, we don’t run into any Acoltis. I think it’s a miracle, until Phoebus explains his family is vacationing at Victorius Surros’s beachside manor in Tarespagia, a trip my friend was invited to attend but merrily declined. As per custom, they took all their sprites and a few manservants, leaving behind the gardeners, groundskeeper, private chef, and matronly housekeeper.
I still remember my first visit of the Acolti property. I’d stayed mute for all of it, shocked by the splendor of the estate and the amount of staff. Although I’m no longer speechless, I’m still gobsmacked.
As we meander down the manicured pathways hemmed with fat bushes and elegant trees, Phoebus makes small talk with everyone we pass. My friend bursts with natural charm, and none of it is artificial. He genuinely cares about round-eared citizens.
“You’d make such a great king,” I say, still clinging to his arm.
“Agreed.”
I smack his pec. “Careful, your pointy ears are showing.”
He snorts a chuckle as we skirt a pond covered in lily pads and packed with frogs that hopped out without fail whenever we’d lounge about the grass.
Every time his parents caught me with one, they’d simper, “Such a vile creature.”
To this day, I’m convinced they meant me, even though Phoebus insists they were referencing the amphibian.
Upon entering the house, we remove our shoes, and I sigh in relief when chilled marble and cool air meet my swollen toes.
“Gods, your feet. Whatever you do, hide them from Dante’s sight whenever he takes you out on that date.”
