"Santos," he says.
His grip is firm without performing anything. His thumb moves once across my knuckles, just once, barely there, and I feel it in my collarbone. It's as if everyone in this casino has disappeared and it is just us, and my omega who is already wanting to ask them their suite number.
"Jennifer," my voice trembles.
The dark-haired one, tall, broad, straightens up and does something with the cuffs of his jacket that is so quietly elegant I almost miss it.
"Matteo," he says.
He doesn't smile. Not exactly. But something in the line of his mouth shifts, and I find it more interesting than a full smile would have been.
His eyes are the particular blue of something very cold and very still, and I have the brief disorienting sensation of being read by someone who does not advertise that they are doing it.
"And I am Tomas," says the blond one, and when I look at him fully the glasses are doing something genuinely problematic to the overall situation.
Three of them.
I look at all three in sequence and feel my strawberry scent bloom outward like it has been waiting for permission.
"Well," I say, picking up my drink because it gives my hands somewhere to go. "That's a lot of beautiful to have standing in one place."
Santos lights up like I've handed him a gift. His fingers brush my wrist as he leans in, warm and deliberate.
"Sei incredibile [You're incredible]," he says.
The way he says whatever he just said, hypnotizes me.
My expression changes and Matteo does the not-smile again, one dark brow lifting, and Tomas gives a rough little laugh, like he didn't mean to.
"Sorry," Santos says. His thumb strokes once over the inside of my wrist before he lets go. "Italian. It comes out when I'm—"
"When you're what?" I purr.
"Affected," he says, his gaze dropping to my mouth.
I hold his eyes for a second. "Say something else."
"In Italian?"
"Yes."
He tilts his head, considers, and then says something low and unhurried, and again he doesn't translate, because the sound of it moves through me like warm water and my rose scent does something so obvious that Santos closes his eyes for one brief moment as if receiving information.
"Madonna," he says quietly, to the ceiling.
"I love French," I tell him. Because I do, and also because I am enjoying this more than I should and I want to see what happens.
All three of them look at me.
"French," Matteo says.
"Oui." I say it with the accent my high school teacher would have approved of, the one I practiced for two years because languages are the kind of thing I collect the way other people collect shoes, and I watch something shift in Matteo's expression that I find very gratifying.
"Tu parles français?" His French is flawless and slightly formal and has the same quality as the rest of him.
"Un peu." I let the pause do work.
Santos looks between me and Matteo with an expression of pure delight.