Page 59 of Shadowed Whispers

Can I tell this stranger a piece of me that I’ve never willingly given another? Fear slices through me hard and fast, and my shadows suck in close to my body, ready to fight for me, but this isn’t a fight they can help me with. This is one that exists solely in my head.

“Maybe,” I whisper, and that’s going to have to be enough, because I don’t know if I can open up to him. I want to, but my tongue won’t form the words.

Matteo nods once, reading all the things I fail to say. “I grew up in New Delhi,” he says, and I turn around, continuing to look for things I don’t need, but I want him to keep talking. “My family—let’s say they had a very important job within the government.”

Holding facial cleanser in my hand, I look at him. His expression never changes as he talks. In fact, it remains the same. Always the same.

“From the moment I could walk, my parents taught me the art of listening,” he continues. “They taught that if we could just sit still, the world would speak, revealing her secrets, and there are many, many secrets.”

The way he says “secrets” sends a chill through me. “Secrets? You mean just people talking around you?”

“Yes, but not only that.” He follows me down the next aisle. “Meditation, breathing, and just listening. When I was six, my mother took me into the woods and left me there.”

I drop the cleanser I was looking at. “Shit.” Bending down, I go to grab it, only for my shadow to grab it and hand it to me. When I pop up, I see Matteo still looking at me.

Did he see that?

Pretending he didn’t, I ask, “Your mom left you in the woods? That’s child abuse.”

Something I know far too well.

“To some, if the intent was cruelty,” he answers. “I was never alone. They were there watching me, assuring I listened.”

I toss the cleanser in the cart and lean on the edge. “How?” I shake my head. “That’s insane.”

Those damn pouty lips of his twitch. “If I had been raised like people in this country, perhaps,” he concedes, “but I listened. Tell me, Frankie, do you believe that animals and trees can speak?”

“I can say with absolute honesty that no one has ever asked me that question in my entire life.” Truthfully, I don’t know if animals or trees can talk. What would they say?

“Ah, but how do you think six-year-old me got out of those woods?” he teases, and it sends a tingle of warmth through me.

“Ran?” I suggest.

“With no direction in mind?” he counters. “In my culture, if you listen, you will hear them speak, and if you listen long enough, you will understand their language.”

I can’t wrap my head around this, so I shake it, just trying to understand. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Then I shall teach you.”

I nibble on my cheek as I lead him away from the toiletries. I already got more than I needed. I just kept throwing stuff in the cart to keep him talking.

“Would you like that, Frankie?” His question rolls over me, tugging at something in my core. It’s almost wholesome that he wants to teach me a piece of who he is.

Dammit, I want it.

“Yeah.” I swallow my nerves. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says. It’s one word, but there is so much hidden meaning there. “The box of cheesy crackers for Leo.” He jerks his head at them.

Grabbing the box, I toss them into the cart. Feeling brave, I spin around and once again grip the cold metal cart. “Lying is easier than telling someone the truth. If I tell them how I really feel, they won’t look at me the same.” The words spill out of me in one long, run-on sentence. I can’t even hold eye contact as I speak.

“So you hide behind false words.” He nods as though he understands, and the messed up part is, I think he does understand. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Francesca. Your truth is sacred to me.”

Just like that, all the tension disperses from me—for all of two seconds.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” The voice sends a chill through me before I even open my eyes. It’s Marcus, speaking with his slimy tone I know all too well. Even though it’s been weeks since we last crossed paths when he kicked me out of the shelter, his voice still carries the echoes of threats.

“Shopping,” comes Matteo’s harsh reply. The man who was compassionate is gone, and when I open my eyes, I find the hard edges that were present the day he threw his teammate against the wall for me.

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