Page 88 of Nero


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The crowd shifts again, and this time I’m rewarded with a sliver of Nero’s full body. Wrapped neck to toe in black, he looks wickedly handsome. His chest looks sculpted, the way it’s wrapped in that vest.

A bolt of red draws my attention.

Red nails.

Long, bright red nails, attached to slim fingers that are pressing against his vest. Right over his heart.

My feet stop.

My heart racing for a whole new reason.

The crowd shifts again, and a rock forms in the base of my throat.

Snug against Nero’s side is a woman. A shockingly gorgeous woman. Whose slender legs, hips and waist are flaunted in a skin-tight red dress. Her giant breasts test the physics of her strapless neckline, and her raven hair is pulled up into a slick bun. She looks like she walked straight off a movie set.

And she’s touching Nero.

I shift closer, trying to understand what I’m seeing.

Maybe they’re just talking to each other.

Maybe she’s one of those people who’s really touchy with her friends.

Not that I’d want him to be friends with another woman.

Maybe it’s not what it looks like.

I repeat that last sentence in my head, over and over, while my eyes move back to Nero’s face. Hoping against hope for some sign that this is all a misunderstanding.

As I watch, I can see that Nero isn’t paying her any attention. But he’s also not pushing her away. He’s preoccupied talking to that other guy.

Old words batter against the back of my mind, telling me I’m stupid. Worthless… And it’s like Nero hears them.

His focus shifts over the other man’s shoulder, and our eyes lock.

The feeling of it is like a physical weight. And not a comfortable one.

As he stares back at me, his expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t smile at me. Doesn’t wince at getting caught. He doesn’t do anything to even acknowledge that he recognizes me.

I take a step closer, wanting to talk to him. Wanting him to explain why everything will be alright. But he looks away, focusing back on the man in front of him.

My body stills, my jaw tensing, my walls wrapping tight around my heart, and something inside of me cracks when I realize it’s the same reaction I have when I’m about to get hit.

The shame and fear and sadness bind together inside of me.

And when movement catches my eye, I slide my gaze down to watch Nero’s hand curling around the woman’s hip.

This time when I sway, I have to put my hand out, balancing myself on the arm of someone standing beside me.

I mumble an apology, even as my mind starts to slip into survival mode.

Nero’s hand stays in place, and at his touch, the woman turns herself further into his body.

My eyes are already brimming with unshed tears, but I drag them back up. Hoping that maybe there’s an explanation. That he’ll be smiling, and wave me over, and tell me this is all a joke.

But he’s not looking at me.

He doesn’t even flick a glance my way.

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