Alaric
"I said I don't smoke," I retorted, my patience snapping as I slapped his hand away. The cigar flickered in the dark. "Don't you understand what consent means? What the hell is your problem, Nico?"
Nico let out a dark, mocking chuckle, shifting his weight against the leather cushions as he brought the cigar back to his own lips. He exhaled a thick plume of gray smoke right into the air between us. "You speak entirely too highly for someone who only stood on the top step of the podium thanks to me."
My blood ran cold, my fists clenching so hard the skin across my knuckles felt ready to split. I stared at him, incredulous. Now he was throwing that in my face? Just days ago, he had looked me in the eye and told me I won that race entirely on my own merit.
What the hell was wrong with him?
I looked past the cigar to the crystal glass of Louis XIII Cognac held tightly in his left hand, noting the slight flush on his neck.
