He laughed darkly as he realized that he’d taken the fairy-tale bait, convinced himself it wouldn’t be so very bad, and this was the beginning of the despair. The thought of what else was to come had him still clutching the bar, even as the orchestra tuned up.

He’d go back out once he collected his thoughts. He was always able to pull himself together, to hide all those vulnerabilities that he’d been told made him weak. He’d go back to Nya after a few minutes more, smiling and pretending everything was fine.

Chapter 23

The maiden had watched the fox god for many a moon, watched as he changed into jewelry and fine clothing and sturdy walking sticks. One day she’d had enough and brought him the meal she was supposed to save for her father because no one had ever thought of what the fox desired, and that broke her heart. She’d been punished, but she’d gone to bed happy because that night the bowl had been found on the back step, filled with small yellow flowers.

—From Phokojoe the Trickster God

Nya’s worry grew as the opera resumed and Johan’s seat remained empty. She couldn’t focus on the beautiful set design, or the singer’s haunting voice. She kept seeing that awful look in his eyes before he excused himself; it was the same look he’d worn in the photo she’d accidentally taken of him.

Only a few people in other boxes would be able to see her slip away. She didn’t really care about them, but she did care about the performers who might look up and notice the box was empty. She waited until the audience was applauding the end of the second act’s first song, then made her move.

When she opened the door to the foyer, the bartender was gone, and Johan stood with his back to her, hands clenching the smooth carved walnut edge of the bar.

“Are you all right?” Nya asked, closing the door from the royal box. The opening strains of the next song were beginning outside the door.

“I think I had some bad kuddlefleck before the press conference,” he said lightly, gripping the bar hard. “Nothing to worry about here. You can go back to the box and I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Phoko. Don’t talk to me in that voice.”

“What voice?”

She wrung her hands together. “The one you hide behind. It’s me. Nya.”

He turned smoothly, walking slowly over to her. When she started backing up he kept walking, and when her back pressed against the wall he placed his palms flat on either side of her head.

“You finally did a wall slam,” she said, trying to make him laugh. To drive away the pain in his eyes as he stared down at her. “Now you’ve checked off everything on our fake relationship list.”

“Why did you follow me in here?” he asked. He didn’t seem angry, not with her at least, though his gaze was intense.

“Because I felt like you needed me.” She lifted her hands to the knot of his bow tie, loosening it. “Why are you upset? They were saying good things about you.”

“Because I give these people everything,” he said in a low voice. “Everything. I smile, and I flirt, and I entertain. And it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.”

She undid the top button of his shirt, tugging at his collar so that he didn’t feel restricted. “Go on.”

“The charity work was the one thing I could do for myself. Without commentary or public opinion or PR spin. And now it’s just more fodder for the tabloids. And they won’t even focus on the right thing! Those organizations are full of people working hard, devoting their lives to helping, and now they’ll be known for being the pet project of a playboy.”

She nodded.

“You’re right to be upset. Whoever released this information took away something very special to you. It’s not fair and . . . it must have been painful, the way they brought up your mother.”

“Life is pain,” he muttered, a hint of self-deprecation in his tone that let her know he was still able to joke despite his upset.

“‘Anyone who says otherwise is selling something.’ Yes, I’ve seen that film, too. Many times. Did you forget the ending?”

He lifted his head to examine her face, then shook his head. “Happily-ever-afters aren’t real.”

“You’re very selective about what lessons you take from classic romance films,” she said, lifting herself on tiptoe and kissing his chin. “I have a solution to this problem, Phoko.”

“What’s that?” his voice was rough, low.

“Don’t think about anyone else. Or anything,” she said. “Just focus on me. Us.”

She kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his stubbled cheek. Her body pressed away from the wall and into his, and she grabbed on to his lapels to steady herself.

He leaned his head away from her.

“You don’t have to kiss it better, Nya. I’m a man. I can deal with my emotions on my own.”

That stung, but slightly less because she knew that, in reality, he was mad at himself because he couldn’t.

“Why would you want to do that?” She combed his hair away from his face with her fingers. “I thought we were friends. And I thought . . . I thought you liked our debauchery.”

“I do. But I don’t want you to do something to make me feel better because you’re used to making people feel better.”