Caleb Griffin asks Chay Wagner to join him on the sand and she agrees, unembarrassed to be seen with a Freshman since everyone knows she’s in a long-distance love affair with Ozzy.
I spot Kade Petrov dancing with Lucy Turgenev. Kade throws several cautious looks back at Tristan Turgenev to be sure Tristan doesn’t mind his friend grinding with his little sister in a (mostly) respectful manner.
Tristan is paying zero attention, distracted by Cat’s friend Perry Saunders who’s hanging off his arm, babbling away at him with an expression of intense admiration plastered across her face. When he tries to escape, several more Sophomore and Junior girls surround him, drowning him in the celebrity adoration that comes from winning a challenge, even in third place.
Hedeon hasn’t asked anyone to dance. He’s standing at the edge of the sand, sipping a drink, watching everyone else. His face is deeply shadowed, the marks on his body dark as tattoos, almost seeming to writhe in the shifting firelight.
Then Cara Wilk steps into view, waving shyly to her sister. She’s dressed simply in a pale blue dress, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She dips her bare toes into the sand, her shoes abandoned in the grass.
Before she can join Anna and Leo, Hedeon cuts across the crowd of students, roughly shouldering aside anyone who stands in his way. He blocks Cara’s path, glowering down at her.
Cara looks up at him, wide-eyed and startled, lips parted.
“Do you want to dance with me?” he grunts.
Cara’s reply is so soft that I can’t make it out over the music. She must have agreed because Hedeon pulls her onto the sand.
Anna is the ballerina, Cara the writer. Yet Cara has enough of her sister’s grace that she slips into a smooth and even sensual rhythm within the rough circle of Hedeon’s arms.
Dancing seems to relax her. Within a few minutes, she’s able to look Hedeon in the face and answer his questions without blushing too much.
Hedeon doesn’t take his eyes off hers, not for a second. His hand rests possessively on the small of her back.
Nix observes their interactions with the same interest as me.
“Opposites attract,” she says, smiling slightly.
“Do you think that’s true?” I ask her.
“Sure,” she says, her eyes locking on mine once more, Hedeon and Cara forgotten. “I’d never want to be with someone with my same flaws.”
“What flaws?” I laugh.
“Horrible temper, obviously. Always blurting out stupid things . . .”
“Not stupid,” I correct her. “Just honest.”
“I’m a grudge holder, too,” she admits. “My father never forgives. And I think . . . I’m too much like him.”
My stomach clenches. “What would you hold a grudge about?” I ask her.
“I hate being lied to,” she says, her green eyes looking into mine, unbearably clear and direct. “It’s why I’ve been so angry with my father since I came here. I thought he was honest with me. And now I realize there’s things he didn’t tell me. Lies of omission are still lies.”
I have the horrible, panicked feeling that she knows. That she’s talking about me, not her father.
“Honesty can be difficult,” I say, through stiff lips. “Not everyone knows themselves as well as you.”
“He knows his reputation, whether he agrees with it or not,” Nix says, angrily, bright spots of color in her cheeks. “He could have warned me.”
I let out a breath.
She really does mean her dad.
“Well, he let you come here at least.”
“I’d like to see him stop me,” Nix says, her color only rising.
If anyone could fight Marko Moroz tooth and claw, I think it’s his daughter.
“God,” Nix groans, as her leg twitches beneath her. “Aren’t you sore? I’m fucking dying from that challenge.”
“Come on,” I say, leading her off the sand, toward the stand of trees surrounding the beach.
“Where are you taking me?” Nix asks, noting the pairs and trios of students who have already crept off this way to find a secluded spot for their intimate activities.
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to seduce you,” I say.
Possibly another lie.
I can’t take my eyes off her. My cock has been hard all night from every brush of her thigh against mine.
It doesn’t help when Nix says in her low, throaty voice, “I’m not worried.”
Our eyes meet and slide apart.
“Sit here,” I say, indicating the base of an almond tree.
Nix lowers herself down gingerly, her legs unwilling to bend in the normal way.
I take her thighs across my lap. Gently, carefully, I begin to massage her quads. I start down by the knees, rubbing my thumbs in small circles where the muscle fibers meet the kneecap.
“Ohhh, Jesus,” Nix groans, her head titled back and her long, creamy throat exposed to the moonlight. “Why does that feel so good?”
“It’s one of the biggest muscle groups. Lactic acid builds up . . . feels good to release it.”
I work my way upward, using the heels of my palms to run up and down the long strings of muscle.
Nix’s legs are firm, but not like a man’s. However androgynous she might dress, Nix remains feminine. She’s not boyish—just a powerful and beautiful woman.
I haven’t touched anyone in a long time.
Nix’s warm legs laying across mine give me comfort she can’t possibly know.
“Are you a professional masseuse?” Nix laughs. “Your touch is just . . . fucking magical.”
I think of my family, where affection was as common as words, in a way that might surprise an outsider.
My father taught me to fight. My mother taught me to shoot. Both were harsh taskmasters, expecting a level of tactical precision that I’ve often had to hide at school so I don’t draw attention to myself.
Yet, they were never violent with me outside of training. My father would rub my shoulders when he knew my traps were seizing up. And my mother would run her fingers through my hair as we watched a movie, like I was still a small child.
We hugged each other. We laughed together.
Our world is cold, but it was never a cold house.
“What’s wrong?” Nix asks me, feeling my hands clench on her thighs.
When I don’t answer, Nix says, “Are you trying to date me Ares, or are we just friends? I can’t read you as well as some people.”
Because I confuse her on purpose.
Because I’m not Ares at all.
“We can’t date,” I say.
“Why not?”
My jaw twitches. “I don’t think your father would like that.”
“Do you care what he wants? Or what I want?”
Through the thin silk of her trousers, I can feel her blood rushing, right under my palms. I know her heart is beating as hard as mine.
“What do you want, Nix?” I ask her.
“I want you to kiss me.”
I look into her eyes.
Do I even remember how to do this?
I see her lips part, ever so slightly.
I lean forward, closing the space between us.
Right before our lips touch, a spark jumps between us, stinging my mouth. Then I kiss her, and the jolt is drowned in the shocking warmth and softness of her mouth. Every nerve comes alive. The sensation is so much stronger than I remember, overwhelming me.