Nix
As Nix slid into the town car, Ivan’s driver’s eyes widened comically in the rearview mirror.
Nix flicked his ponytail over his shoulder, treating the man to a sultry smile as Ivan joined him in the back seat. The driver was somewhere in his late sixties, perhaps, with deep lines etched into his sun-weathered skin. “Well, hello, handsome,” Nix purred. “What’s your name?”
Ivan’s hand shot out, settling tightly on Nix’s thigh.
A warning? Nix raised a brow. “I can’t say hello?”
Mr. Grumpy Pants didn’t answer him, addressing the driver instead. “Oleg. Eyes forward.”
“Yes, sir.” The driver—Oleg, apparently—dutifully shifted his gaze back to the road, gliding the car onto the busy street.
The slightly acrid scent of fear wafted back from the front and settled on the leather seats. Nix leaned in close to Ivan, murmuring in his ear, “What an intimidating master you are.”
Ivan’s grip on his thigh tightened. It might have been painful, ifNix were human. He might have been into it even if it were. Ivan seemed to think he was cowing Nix into submission, but the silly beast was just turning Nix on.
“This is my new assistant, Oleg,” Ivan said coolly, as if he wasn’t practically clawing into Nix. “You’ll be seeing him around.”
Nix leaned forward as far as Ivan’s restricting grip would allow. “His newpersonalassistant,” he amended. “Pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Not like our boss man here.”
Ivan pressed the button to raise the partition, separating them from the driver.
Nix turned to toss him a pout, only to pause as Ivan dropped his head back against the seat, his eyes closing with a deep sigh. It was a surprisingly vulnerable position, his neck stretched and bare. Nix had a feeling not many people saw him this way.
He wondered why he was allowed.
The answer came to him immediately.Because the contract keeps you from hurting him. He has a guarantee you’re safe.
Ivan was clearly someone who’d been raised since birth to believe the other shoe would drop at any moment, and it would guide a knife into his back when it did. Nix had overheard enough of Ivan’s conversation with his brother to know things were fraught there. What had Sascha called him? A controlling asshole. A lunatic.
But of course, if Ivan reallydidhave a mole, then he’d only been proven right in his paranoia.
And then there was the whole mother thing. Murdered by the father? Big yikes. The whole situation made Nix happy to be a demon. Demon parents—if you could call them that—procreated, birthed, and scattered to the winds once their youngling was self-sufficient. Mated pairs would stay together, but they didn’t keep their spawn with them.
So Nix didn’t have any fraught family politics to mess with hishead. Which made him the perfect person to help dear Vanya—he had no baggage of his own to get in the way.
He studied Ivan’s face, cool and composed even at rest. The bruising under his eyes was still there. It wasn’t dark enough to be wholly unattractive, but it definitely betrayed some fatigue. He had a few lines too, although not as deeply etched as Oleg’s. Frown lines on his forehead. Not the telltale crow’s-feet of the happy and well adjusted.
Ivy-poo wasn’t doing much smiling, was he?
“How old are you?” Nix asked.
“I turned forty in January,” Ivan answered without opening his eyes. He hadn’t removed his hand from Nix’s thigh, though his grip had loosened.
Did Ivan even notice it was still there?
Touch-starved. Majorly. Nix didn’t need to be an incubus to diagnose that much.
Nix twisted to face him fully, careful to keep his leg where it was (he didn’t want to risk dislodging that poor, searching hand), propping an elbow on the leather interior and resting his head on his fist. “And what did you do to celebrate?”
“Got very, very drunk.”
Ivan would have done it alone, Nix realized immediately. He wouldn’t have wanted to let himself be that undone in front of any other people.
And since Ivan was being so forthcoming…
“Why do you care if I flirt with your driver?”
