they were just beginning as a couple. An issue of trust could break them before they really began, so she had to be absolutely clear with him.
“You’re an amazing actor.” When he looked away from her, shoulders hunched in embarrassment, she touched his forearm. “No, don’t shrug that off, Marcus. Listen to me.”
Expression pained, he met her eyes again, and that was her cue to continue. “I love Wade’s version of Lavinia, above any other character in the series. I was so disappointed when Summer Diaz was chosen for the role.” When his lips tightened, she clarified. “Not because she’s a bad actor. Because her casting negated a lot of what I found important and appealing about Lavinia and her romantic and personal arcs in the books.”
At that, he nodded in understanding.
“The fact that I didn’t transfer to another fandom once the show began airing is mostly due to you, I think. Not your appearance, although you’re obviously gorgeous, but your performance. You’re that good, Marcus. I can’t believe you haven’t won a bunch of awards.”
She scowled at the injustice, then got back to her point.
This was the part she needed to get right, because she was telling him the absolute truth. She might find their situation confusing at times, but she had no doubts as to which man was lying in bed beside her. She had no doubts as to the identity of her brand-new boyfriend. She had no doubts as to who and what she actually wanted.
“Millions of people have read Wade’s books. Even more have seen you play Aeneas. They know him, and they know his story. I know him. I know his story. I’ve written stories about him for years, and so have hundreds of others. And don’t get me wrong. I still think he’s great. I still think you’re great, in your portrayal of him.” As she’d done earlier that day, she laid a palm over his heart, its beat unshielded by clothing this time. “But I want to know you. Marcus Caster-Rupp, not Aeneas. I want to know your story. I’m attracted to you. Because what’s hidden, what’s real, is always more interesting and important to me than appearances or performances.”
He was watching her so carefully, that line between his brows not completely gone.
When he spoke, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. “I’m no brave hero, April.”
Why he seemed to consider that such a damning confession, why he was staring at her with such pleading and anxiety, she had no idea. But she intended to remove that worried expression from his face, the sooner the better.
“I don’t . . .” His jaw worked, and each word seemed dragged from his throat unwillingly. “I don’t always do the right thing, or the courageous thing.”
At her snort, he actually jumped a little.
“So you’re human, rather than a fictional character or an actual demigod.” She waved off that particular concern. “How terrible and disappointing. Also, to be fair, Aeneas did some shitty stuff too. Like, for example, abandoning the woman he’d been sleeping with for a year without bothering to tell her goodbye.”
His brow unpinched a tad, even as he sprang to his character’s defense. “The gods instructed him—”
“Blah, blah, blah.” She rolled her eyes. “His moral responsibilities didn’t begin and end with the residents of Mount Olympus. He could have left a damn note, at least.”
His nostrils flared as he exhaled. “Okay, okay. You’re right. That was shitty. But it was one of the bits included in both the Aeneid and Wade’s books, so there was no way to play it differently.”
BAWN had made the same argument to her before, and he’d been equally wrong then. “Of course. Because your showrunners were always so very faithful to the source material they were given.”
He didn’t bother arguing, probably because there really was no good counterargument. Instead, he only grinned at her and took her hand again, interlacing their fingers. “No comment.”
“Oh, I think that’s comment enough.” She scooted closer to him. Closer again, until she was pressed along the length of his side, softness against taut strength. Heat against heat. “If you’re still worried I don’t know who you are, show me who you are. I’ll prove I can differentiate the man from the performance.”
“I’ll—” His voice choked to silence as her open mouth roamed along his shoulder. Over the ridges of his ribs. Down to that blessed divot at his hip, then in and down again. “I’ll try my best.”