CHAPTER 4
NINA MARCHESI
They’re not boys anymore.
Suddenly, the thought I had a few hours ago—about them looking like gods—cuts through my mind, sounding even truer than before. My God, they are most certainly not boys anymore.
And my body’s reaction to their presence is physical proof that whatever they stir in me as an adult is very different from the almost-platonic admiration I always felt for the group. They don’t even look real, they’re so beautiful. How is that possible?
They’re all here. And all of them are busy decorating the massive Christmas tree. Drako is up on the ladder, hanging ornaments at the very top of it. It’s an amusing image, because it feels completely out of place.
A six-foot-tall man, far more muscular than I remember, suspended in the air on an aluminum ladder to decorate a Christmas pine. His hair—and his smile—are still the same, shaved close to the scalp just like the last time I saw him years ago.
Drako always had a mischievous look on his face, while his greenish eyes held something mysterious. He’s adorable, and he was the one I spent the most time around, because as the youngest of the four, he was the last to leave this place when he came of age.
His olive-toned skin glistens with a sheen of sweat that tells me decorating the tree is just one of the many tasks he’s taken on today—not the only one.
Beside him, holding a box of ornaments, is one of the twins. Apollo. I can tell at a glance, because let’s be honest—I spent far too much time drooling over him and his brother not to have absorbed the subtle differences most people miss. I used to be quite proud of that.
Dressed in jeans and an association T-shirt—just like his twin and their friend on the ladder—Apollo is rolling his green eyes at something Drako is saying, though there’s a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He is, without a doubt, the most fun of the four—always with a joke ready, his constant smile reflecting the lightness with which he chooses to live, despite everything. Where Drako holds mystery, Apollo radiates indiscriminate kindness.
Drako says something else, and Apollo tilts his head, running a hand lightly over the short beard on his face—identical to his brother’s—just as Atlas chooses that moment to join the conversation.
Atlas nudges Apollo, making him turn only his neck to look back.
It’s quite the scene, and the teenage version of me would have been losing her mind if she’d witnessed it.
The same green eyes. The same dark-blond hair. The same thick beards they both started growing far too young. The same full lips. The same sun-kissed Greek skin. And now, also the same muscular arms stretching the fabric of their sleeves and the same broad thighs filling out their jeans.
It’s the same tall, devastatingly beautiful body—every detail multiplied by two. Heat rushes to my cheeks and neck, and I force my gaze away only to fall into a far worse trap.
Nero Zanthos.
The boys, in general, were always objects of my attention—that’s true. But it’s also true that as I grew older, I became almost obsessed with Nero.
Maybe because he was the one I interacted with the least. Or maybe because he was already unreachable long before distance ever separated us.
I was five when he was fourteen. I don’t know.
I lost count of how many photos of him I cut out of magazines while watching—or stalking—him from afar as I stopped being a child and he became a man.
Standing behind his three friends, Nero is the only one wearing a full suit and tie instead of the association uniform.
I let my eyes travel quickly and discreetly over his tall body, even stronger than the others’.
His arms are crossed, his expression stoic, as if he’d only stopped there to supervise the work.
His skin is the fairest of the four, as is his hair—just a shade lighter than the twins’. His beard is a little fuller too. But it was always his eyes that held my absolute fascination, ever since he was a boy.
Blue. Exactly like the sea surrounding our island.
And if my heart had already shifted its rhythm before, now my breath catches in my throat as I observe—closer than I ever have—the imposing man Nero has become. After all, our paths stopped crossing the moment he left the orphanage.
My hands slip, and the box crashes to the floor with a loud bang, snapping me out of my daze.
I mentally roll my eyes, realizing that even though I left my childish crush behind, all it took was laying my eyes on the four of them together—once, just once, after years—for me to look like a lovestruck teenager all over again.
I shake my head and finally thaw from the spot, picking up the box and feeling ready to move toward any door that will take me away from the entrance hall and far from the men whose presence leaves me dizzy. But I take only one step before one of their voices sounds directly at me.
“Well, well, well… what do we have here? Are my eyes deceiving me?” Drako asks as I’m halfway through my second stride.
I look behind me, searching for anyone else he might be talking to—because my peripheral vision showed that he, and now the other three, are staring at me. To my misfortune, behind me there’s only the open door to the street.
Seconds pass without anyone around me stepping forward to answer the question, further confirming what I feared most.
He’s talking to me.
I take advantage of the fact that my face is hidden from his view to briefly close my eyes, gather my courage, and turn back toward the four friends.
“That depends,” I say. “What do you think you’re seeing?”
Drako’s grin widens as he starts climbing down the ladder. The other three watch me with a mix of raised brows and mouths that can’t decide what shape to take.
“Someone who, judging by the box in her hands, hasn’t broken the habit of feeding vagrants,” he replies, jumping from the third rung straight to the floor and walking toward me.
When he’s close enough, Drako sticks a hand into the box, pulls out one of the ornament balls, immediately opens it, and starts unwrapping the cookie inside.
“Hi, Nina.” He pauses, looking me up and down playfully.
“You grew up.” The understatement of the century.
I roll my eyes, even as heat floods my skin.
Of course I grew up, for God’s sake. “But old habits die hard, right?” he asks, bringing the fully unwrapped cookie to his smiling mouth and devouring it in one bite.
“Nina Marchesi!” This time it’s Atlas, stepping closer.
He immediately takes the box from my hands, and I flex my arms instinctively.
He tilts his head toward Drako in reproach.
“Better this way,” he says gently—and just like that, he steals my first smile.
Why is my heart racing, my God? “Sorry about that. Drako has always forgotten his manners when he’s hungry, which is to say—always. ”
“And that hasn’t changed, then?” I tease.
“Oh, my dear, that definitely hasn’t changed,” Atlas replies, and we laugh together. My stomach flips.
“You’re not the wide-eyed little girl anymore, are you?
” Apollo chimes in. I lift my gaze to him just in time to see him deliberately bump his shoulder against Nero’s—who has also stepped closer, but is the only one still silent beside him.
“Don’t you remember her, Nero? She’s not the awkward, scrawny, big-eyed kid anymore—but you can tell it’s her. ”
Awkward, scrawny, big-eyed kid? Someone please shoot me and put me out of my misery.
I stop myself from swallowing hard before tilting my head up to meet Nero’s gaze. He’s the tallest of the four, and I barely reach the height of his chest.
Up close, the blue of his eyes seems even more vivid, and suddenly I start to disagree with Drako.
Maybe I didn’t grow up. Maybe I’m still a foolish teenager and this is just one of the many dreams I’ve had about the four of them.
Because that’s the only explanation for how my heart starts pounding in my chest, struggling to knock my breathing off balance simply because I’m standing so close to Nero.
“Of course I remember,” he says—and I don’t need a mirror to know that the faint blush warming my skin has just turned into something far more intense. “How is your mother, Nina?”
“Fine,” I answer too quickly, afraid of answering too slowly. Then I count to three before continuing. “Just very busy, so she asked me to bring the cookies.”
“Thank you for that,” he says, his expression softening slightly from the one he wore when I arrived, and I nod.
“Nice nails,” Drako comments, his eyes fixed on my hands, a wide grin on his face. It makes me smile before I can stop myself.
I love my nails this week. Actually—every week. Some people say talking is therapy. Others say doing dishes is. I paint my nails. The more colorful and decorated, the better.
“Cats are cute,” I reply, and this time he’s the one who laughs.
“So? How was college?” he asks, stealing my surprised attention—but it takes only a second for me to understand.
“My mother,” I murmur to myself, already dying of embarrassment over whatever she might have said—or worse, how many times she might have said it.
Since I got the scholarship, every other topic seems to have vanished from my mother’s lips. She decided there was no need for new ones. Telling every living soul that her daughter had gotten into university—the first in the family to earn a degree—was enough.
And it’s not that I’m not proud or happy. I am. Especially because I get to give her that joy. The problem is, the rest of the world doesn’t care—and he probably understood the first time she told him.
He didn’t need to keep hearing it over and over again at every opportunity. But of course, when I tried to warn Rosa Marchesi about that, she simply ignored me. Mothers, right?
“She’s proud,” he says, reverently—and the way he says it instantly dissolves my embarrassment. “Very proud.”
“And she should be. The credit is all hers.” The moment the words leave my mouth, my face falls—I think I’ve just committed a faux pas. Three of the four men in front of me were raised without mothers, and here I am praising mine. Apollo, however, doesn’t seem bothered. He’s the one who replies.
“Don’t be modest. Full scholarships aren’t given to students who don’t work hard.”
I shrug, silently brushing it off—while internally glowing from the small recognition. Not because I didn’t already know it, but because of who said it.
“They were amazing years,” I finally answer the original question.
“You can do better than that,” Drako says. “Give me the juicy details.”
His request pulls a laugh from me—one that’s abruptly cut off by a loud exclamation from a man I don’t recognize.
“Hey! Deliveries are made through the service entrance and are definitely not handed to one of the directors! You’re in the wrong place!”
He’s right in assuming the box in Atlas’s arms was delivered by me. I blink and swallow hard, trying to make my brain function so I can apologize and respond.
“She’s not an employee, Alastor.”
Catching me completely off guard—and sending my heart into even more frantic chaos—Nero answers before I have the chance.
“She’s my guest. She’s just doing me a favor,” he says, his tone indisputable.
The man—Alastor—blinks, almost frozen in time for a couple of seconds, weighing Nero’s words, which obviously make no sense. Of course I’m a guest. The entire island was invited to the Christmas party. That doesn’t mean I’m not an employee.
None of that leaves Alastor’s lips, though. He simply nods.
“Of course, Mr. Zanthos. I apologize for the confusion. Do you need anything?”
“No, Alastor. Thank you.”
“May I take the box?” he asks, nodding toward Atlas.
“Please,” Nero replies.
I watch with the same astonishment that marked the entire exchange as the association employee takes the box from Atlas’s arms, gives me one last apologetic glance, and disappears through a door.
“I’ll see you tonight, then?” Nero asks as soon as the man is gone—and I blink, realizing he’s speaking to me again.
“Of course,” I answer—again, too quickly. “Of course.” This time, I don’t remember waiting the three seconds. Nero’s lips curve into the faintest smile, but it’s enough to send a shiver down my spine.
“Good. Very good.”
“I—I need to go,” I stuttered, feeling more nervous with every second I spend in front of the four of them. “It was nice seeing you again.”
“The pleasure was all ours,” Drako says.
He closes the distance between us with one long step and cups one of my cheeks with a large hand before kissing the other—without giving me time to prepare. And before I can even process what’s happening, Apollo and then Atlas do the same.
It only lasts seconds—and still, I find myself yearning for Nero’s turn when I realize, one after the other, they’re all going to say goodbye to me.
He’s never touched me.
I spent years chasing every scrap of information I could find about someone I’d never touched, someone I’d never even exchanged ten meaningful words with. I was only five when he left the orphanage. It was shortly after Christmas.
Atlas steps back, and Nero looks at me with an expression I don’t recognize before moving closer. Finally, he takes two steps forward—and unlike the others, he doesn’t just kiss my cheek.
One of his arms wraps around my waist first, and I only keep breathing because I already haven’t been for a while. Which reminds me—I should go back, right? It would be good for my brain to get some oxygen. But I simply can’t deal with that demand right now.
“It was a pleasure seeing you again, Little Fae,” he says—and I smile, instantly losing all the progress my skin had made toward its usual paleness when I hear the old nickname for the first time in almost a decade.
“The pleasure was mine. Thank you for the help,” I say, turning away immediately after he steps back, giving one last wave to each of the other men around me.
I’m perfectly aware that this looks a lot like running away—but that’s because it is. I need air.
I pass through the door with the most controlled steps I can manage—which, honestly, isn’t much—and when I reach the sidewalk, my eyes scan my surroundings without settling on anything.
They don’t linger on the whitewashed buildings lined up along the street, nor on the cobblestones, nor on the iron café tables across the road announcing the presence of a small café.
And yet, they take everything in as I draw a deep breath, flooding my lungs with exactly what they needed.
Home.
I’m home.
Even if it has never looked as bright as it does in this exact moment.