Sylvia's apartment was not built for men like Nero.
That became obvious the second he stepped inside.
Not because the place was small, exactly. It was decent by city standards, a clean two-room apartment in a good Alamina building, with warm lighting, books stacked in mildly unstable piles, a narrow kitchen that opened into the living area, and a couch she had once described to Dean as "perfectly functional if no one dramatic sits on it wrong."
The problem was that Nero was seven foot five and built like someone had taken the concept of a royal bodyguard and then added a crown.
He filled the entryway first, then the living room, then, with quiet inevitability, her entire couch.
Sylvia stood in the kitchen doorway holding the delivery bags and stared.
Nero, halfway through taking off his jacket, noticed. "What?"
She shut the door with her heel. "Nothing. I'm just accepting that my furniture has never faced a challenge like this before."
His gaze flicked once to the couch.
