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Now she looks up. "You almost kissed him."

"No."

"Oh." She nods. "Then he almost kissed you."

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Nyra's eyebrows rise. Damn it.

"Nothing happened." I say.

"I didn't say something happened."

"You literally—"

"I said almost."

"Nyra."

"Eirea." I glare. She smiles. Infuriating woman.

"How would you even know?" Her expression becomes almost pitying. Oh, absolutely not. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm stupid."

"I don't think you're stupid."

"Good."

"I think you're terrible at noticing when someone likes you." I freeze. Likes. That word feels absurdly juvenile for Rhyven. Rhyven doesn't like people. Rhyven tolerates them with varying degrees of irritation.

"He doesn't." Nyra stares. "What. He doesn't like me."

Her stare deepens. "Are we talking about the same man?"

"Yes."

"Rhyven Corvell?"

"Unfortunately."

"Tall?"

"Nyra."

"Golden eyes?"

"Stop."

"Permanent expression suggesting everyone around him has disappointed him?" I throw a pillow. She catches it. Laughs.

"He treats me like everyone else." I say.

"No."

"He does."

"No."