“What?”
“You answer all of mine.”
“That’s the worst deal ever!” she scoffed, leaning back. “It’s not even remotely fair. I’ve already told you so much about myself, I just want to even the scales.”
He shrugged. “I’m not a fair man. There, that was a freebie.”
“I already knew that,” she grumbled, poking at her dinner like a sullen child. When she finally put the food to her lips and a small moan fell from her lips involuntarily, Anteros smirked.
“Fine,” she sighed. “Deal. Hmm…if I only get three questions, they have to be good ones.” She held her fork up, waving it around in thought. “Okay. How did you get these scars?” She reached out and touched his bare chest, tracing the delicate lines on his chest before resting on the F she’d given him.
“Some were given to me as a slave, others I got under interrogation, some my parents gave to me. There are too many incidences to give you just one.”
“Your parents?” She sounded horrified. “That’s—how could they?” Anteros had never been ashamed of his scars. A scar was simply a battle wound, and in his life, the more battles you survived, the more feared you became. Anteros—the Beast—had survived more battles than anyone, yet for some reason the way Frankie stared made him want to erase his scars so he could erase the look of pity.
“That’s another question,” Anteros said with black humor, and she made a face. “Are you telling me your papa was the picture of parental affection?”
She pulled her hand back. “When you put it like that.” Silence fell between them. It wasn’t easy like before, now sticky and cramped. Anteros pushed his food away and ran a hand through his hair, looking at Frankie, who wasn’t touching her food either.
It was such a stupid fucking idea to answer questions.
“Just so you know, I think they’re beautiful.” Frankie pushed her food around, eyes on the plate. “I was just startled.” Another few seconds passed and Anteros focused on Frankie. How could someone like her find someone like him beautiful? He reached for her fork, taking it from her hands.
“Eat before it gets cold.” He lifted the fork and put it to her lips. “My turn. Have you had sex with anyone else? Since you’ve been gone?” Her eyes widened and she swallowed the bite he’d just given her, almost choking.
“No,” she said, laughing. “Just, no.”
He glared, setting the fork down. “It’s a valid question.”
“Who was I going to have sex with? Nikolai?” She shuddered.
“You’re surrounded by soldiers. You’re young, beautiful.” He dropped his fork, carding his fingers through her hair, both hands gripping her skull. “You’re the most spectacular thing any of those men will ever see.” Her lids drooped, heavy lashes shadowing her eyes.
“Just you,” she murmured, licking her lips. His gaze dropped to them, plump, ready to be sucked and bitten. Knowing it was just him, knowing only his hands had been on her and only he inside her, drove him mad. She utterly belonged to him.
“Wait, have you?” she asked, snapping out of her lusty trance.
“No,” he said easily. He pushed her hair behind her ear, stroking it down her back, and placed his lips at the nape of her neck. “Just you.”
“That doesn’t count as a question,” she added quickly. “I was piggybacking off yours.”
He chuckled, brushing his lips from her neck to her shoulder. “Noted.”
“Do you remember what happened to the letter I gave you at the church?” He slowly sat up, looking Frankie in the eyes. The question caught him off guard, but years of training and multiple interrogations kept his face stoic. Of course she would be curious about what happened to the letter, and he’d been expecting her to ask about it when shit died down, but he’d thought he’d have a few more days to figure out how to continue lying to her.
“I think I lost it in all the commotion,” he said. “It may still be back there.” It wasn’t a complete lie. He had almost lost the letter in the furor at the docks. It had been sopping wet and smudged when he’d realized it was still in his pocket. He’d locked it in the desk in his bedroom upstairs the minute he got the chance. “Was it important to you?” Anteros asked, if only to get the abject sorrow off her face.
“No.” She looked at her lap and worked the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know. Lucia hasn’t told me anything about my family, about where I came from, about who I am. I was hoping it might tell me something. It was all I had, really.”
Anteros felt…guilty. That was the feeling. It was an odd resonance in his gut, one he’d never felt before. An urge to tell her everything overcame him.
“Did you get a chance to read it?” she asked, face turning to his, hopeful. Half her face caught the light, a soft glow painting her honey skin as her blue eyes glimmered like sun shining on a clear lake, and he cupped her cheek.
“Is that a question?” His tone was joking, but upon seeing her face fall, he switched. “No, mio cuore, I didn’t.” Unlike his previous answer, that one was a complete lie.
“Oh well,” she sighed. “I love it when you call me mio cuore,” she said, switching the subject and nuzzling against his palm. He tried to ignore the odd feeling of remorse in his gut. “It’s not very fair, I don’t have any nicknames for you.” Her forehead wrinkled in thought.
He didn’t want a nickname. Not from her. He’d grown up in a life where people disguised themselves behind their nicknames. The greatest pleasure was hearing her scream his name—his real name. He told her as much.