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"Your singing is what saved your life."
"Eh?" I scowl.
"I heard you singing and headed in your direction; that’s when I noticed the men surrounding you and had to intervene."
"Th-th-hank you." Oh, no, not the stammering again; not now.
"What were you doing walking alone at two in the morning?
I frown. I’ve had enough of my family censoring my movements, without this stranger asking me about them.
"What’s it to you?" I jut out my chin.
He arches an eyebrow. "You could have been,” he pauses, “you know."
"But I wasn’t."
"Pretty close."
I fold my arms across my chest, mirroring his stance. He’s right, but I don’t want to dwell on that. He saved me—it’s true. And maybe I do owe him. The least I can do is answer his questions. But something about the arrogance that clings to him, that hooked aristocratic nose of his, the way he’s watching me with a judgmental expression... It makes me want to defy him. "But I wasn’t. You came at the right moment, and that’s the point."
"That isn’t the point," he growls, then lowers his arms to his sides. "I may not be there the next time. What then?"
"It won’t happen again." I firm my lips.
"The confidence of youth," he snorts.
"You’re not that old, yourself."
"Is that a sneaky way of finding out my age, little girl?"
"I’m not so little."
"You’re what, eighteen?"
"Fourteen." The truth bursts out of my mouth before I can stop myself. Oh, shoot, why couldn’t I have lied and pretended I was eighteen?"
"You’re fourteen?" He takes a step back clearly wanting to put distance between us.
"The age of consent in Italy is fourteen," I inform him.
He stares. "Where I come from, you’re not old enough to shag."
I wince. "If you think using that four-letter word is going to frighten me off—"
"From what, exactly?" He looks me up and down. "You’re a teenager. My tastes run to women, and bloody hell—" He runs his fingers through his hair again. "You’re distraught. Perhaps, still in shock."
"I’m not in shock. I know what happened, I know what those men wanted with me—"
"Oh, yeah?" He slaps his palms on his hips. "What do you think they wanted to do to you, pray tell?"
"Th-th-they…" I bite the inside of my cheek. I will not stammer, will not stammer. Oh, god, not now. Not when I want to appear grown up and wise beyond my years to this man.
"How old are you?" I ask.
He seems taken aback by my question, then lowers his chin to his chest. "I’m too old for you."
"How old?" I set my jaw. "You’re what, twenty?"
