Jude glanced at the curtain the men had just left through, then back to me. "I do. Was that for the audience, or—"
"You," I whispered. The more honest I was, the harder it was to come up with lies. Not that I wanted to give him one. "On stage. That was for you. And for me."
Jude stepped closer again, and my head tipped back just a bit to meet his gaze. "And if I want more?"
My breath caught. I wanted more too. "Well, that was my plan, but now you've decided to do your job and—"
His kiss was sudden—that's four in a row, I thought—and a little rough, abrupt, but I smoothed my lips against his and took his face in my hands to teach him the act. He groaned slightly, and we took turns suckling at each other, tender exchanges that made up for the rush of connection we'd had on stage. His hands searched me and pulled me closer, a slow study.
"The others—" I started as his mouth trailed to my jaw.
"I don't care," he rasped.
"—aren't going anywhere. They're mine."
"I don't care," he repeated, pulling away, smiling, his stare bright and cheeks flushed. "Aside from perhaps the difficulty of finding time with you."
"I'll sort it out," I said.
"At least one private moment," Jude continued, a shocking grin growing on his face. "And then I'll learn to share."
I had no right to blush. Sharing was hardly out of my normal repertoire, and yet the thought of Jude and Ronan and Hunter sharing was—
His parting kiss was soft, trailing across my cheek over to my ear. "Thank you."
"We'd better leave now," Asterion announced, and Jude was vanishing out the door like the others, his chin high and shoulders broad, a smile still stretching his cheeks.
Which only left…
I turned and found Nireas sitting on the chaise, two hands gripping his knees, another two the cushion.
"I can stand out in the hall. Keep an eye out so that no one bothers you," he said.
"Are you offering to let me avoid talking to you, or are you no longer as eager to—"
He rose up suddenly, cursing under his breath as his head hit the ceiling, hunching and stepping forward. He was still in his suit, the fitted black sleeves tight around his many arms, long tail resting patiently on the floor behind him. He was a bit of a chimera, this gegenees giant.
"I'm not eager, Hazel. I'm desperate. Desperate for you to listen to me, for me to finally quit being such a coward. Desperate to touch you, kiss you, watch you falling apart in my arms again." His voice was torn, agonized, all three eyes pinning me in place with tangible gutting, like he'd just thrust a sword through me, to the wall. "Desperate to apologize, and desperate for you to forgive me. Desperate to know if…if it even matters."
I wet my lips, heart drumming in my chest. Nireas was an old wound, freshly irritated from our time on stage together. A wound that should've healed over and stopped throbbing years ago. It was only a kiss. A kiss and a friendship, a kindness I'd never encountered in my life at that point. My first love.
A speech like that would make any girl swoon, I told myself. But I wasn't swooning. My eyes were stinging and my heart was panging, my hands clenched to fists at my side.
Eight years of silence was the infection that had never allowed me to heal. As much as I wanted to run from Nireas now, it wouldn't make things better.
"It matters," I said.
Nireas let out a heavy breath, his shoulders slumping somewhat, and a hand reached for me.
"Not here. Someone will interrupt," I said, studying him.
He nodded and let his hand drop. "I know where we can go. Will you follow?"
I bit down on my lip, gathering strength, and when I didn't find enough, I pretended there was more there. I was an actress, after all.
* * *
Nireas hadan apartment in the theater, like Ronan's, although his was in the stage right wing. We took a ladder up, the pipes of the organ rising around us like columns, hidden in the walls, and we stopped at a tall but narrow door that Nireas had to walk through sideways.
The ceilings were high and the windows were tall, facing the blank brick wall of a warehouse next door. Nireas lit a small lamp and I stopped still at the entrance, marveling at the room. Ronan's apartment was sort of perfunctory and bare, a landing place for an imp that rarely stopped moving. A nest for sleeping and not much more.
Nireas's was…cozy. Beautiful, actually. There were carpets layered over the floor, and large solid furniture that was clearly well cared for. He had bookshelves stuffed with thin spines and loose papers—music perhaps—and a small piano, ill-suited to his size, pressed to one wall.
"How long have you lived here?" I asked.
"Over sixty years," Nireas said.
He didn't even look sixty years old. He was probably centuries old. A millenia even?
The apartment was his home. The theater was his home.
"Reddy was a stagehand when I came to play the organ," Nireas said, watching me from yards away.
His bed was to the right of him, a structure clearly built for him in mind because it was enormous. Comfortable and simple. He cleared his throat, and I pulled my stare away, looking for anywhere else to sit. A small table with a single seat sat near the window, and the piano bench was to my left.
"I fell in love with a girl my first year here," Nireas said.
I shut the door behind me as the words rang in my ears. So we were starting now—starting with a former love. That bleeding space in my chest throbbed.
"And she left," I said.