“So how’s Danil?”—the friend presses. “Still driving all the girls within a kilometer crazy? Has he tried coming onto you again? It did you good, that spirit of Europe—you’ve turned into such a beauty.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” I mumble, feeling myself blush at the mention of Danil’s name.
“If you don’t know, he’s dating my sister.”
“With a half-sister. She may have to move over. So what about your half-brother? Still the same scoundrel?”
I keep quiet because I don’t consider it my right to call a person that, since I’m staying in his house. Although my friend is absolutely right. Ars remains as cynical and cold as a scoundrel as he was four years ago, and he still hates me.