Page 83 of Nocturne

I know how she feels. I’ve been taking care of myself and Iyra for so long that I’ve forgotten how to rely on someone else. Just because I can manage alone doesn’t mean I don’t crave being pampered, understood, or cared for.

But trusting someone more than myself will be a gruelling process. A man must show consistency to earn my trust, and only then will I submit—never for anything less.

She turns to look at me, and it is now my turn to shed some wisdom. Something Ma had told me long back.

“Having a partner means having someone whom you can share your darkest fears with. You can sit down with them and tell them about your deepest secrets, nastiest thoughts and unforgivable sins and not be afraid of judgment. The idea of being able to find a person who not only accepts the skewed parts of us but also celebrates them is exciting, isn’t it?”

“We are fucked in the head more than the normal population, right?” She asks.

I nod and shrug helplessly. We were dealt with an unfair hand. Nothing can be done about it other than accepting it.

“Then would you think a straight-laced man who preaches goodness and warmth would understand us?”

I see a slight smirk on her face. I try to glare at her, but I cannot help but be impressed by the way she turned the conversation.

“No,” I answer honestly.

She lets out a light laugh at my dilemmatic expression.

“Immorality is nothing but a change of perspective, my sweet Ara. And often, people who get painted as villains are tagged such because they refuse to bow down to the norms imposed by tyrants. In a world filled with misguided perceptions of right and wrong, I’d prefer a villain who remains loyal to what he believes than a man who blindly follows the norms set to control the mob.”

“You are sneakily wise,” I pout.

Usually, it is I who points out reasonable truths and sheds wisdom. It feels weirdly nice to be on the receiving end of it.

Harley laughs again, the sound making me smile. I’m glad she found a friend in me.

“There is also another reason I favour the villains,”

“What is it?” I raise my brows.

“They fuck the best,” she winks.

She walks away with an evil laugh, leaving me behind with flaming cheeks and unnecessary thoughts of a certain grey-eyed devil and his performance in bed.

* * *

I hum softly, singing one of Ma’s old songs as I move around the kitchen, preparing manicotti. Cas sits on the island, carefully helping me fill the piping bag with the stuffing. He’s so meticulous—my little angel who hates clutter just like I do. He says messes make his head hurt. I think it’s adorable, seeing him so focused on keeping the space as neat as possible.

All day, I’ve been waiting to get home and make this with him. I prepared the marinara sauce last night with a few little twists—a splash of balsamic vinegar for depth, a touch of honey to soften the tomatoes’ tang, and a sprinkle of smoked paprika because Ivy loves that hint of warmth. And I added sun-dried tomatoes just for Cas. I don’t care if it’s loaded with cheese; there’s only one life, and I’d rather meet my maker with a full stomach than in a haze of perfection.

I check the shells, pulling them off the stove just as they hit al dente, and transfer them to a plate. Cas has finished with the filling and hands me the piping bag, his flour-dusted face beaming with pride. I can’t resist kissing his cheek, and he scrunches his nose but grins up at me, proud as anything.

“Is the garlic bread done?”

I laugh, the sound both familiar and strange. I’ve laughed since I ran, but it’s never felt this real, this easy. No one makes me feel that way but my little miracle. I glance at the timer, showing four minutes left on the garlic bread.

“Not yet, sweetie.”

Cas nods, already staring at the oven with rapt attention. The kid’s obsession with garlic bread is borderline dangerous. I swear he’d eat it every meal if I let him. He gets his fix of buttery goodness, but I keep an eye on it, balancing his favourite treats with healthy meals. Ivy likes to roll her eyes whenever I say that I don’t spoil him, claiming that I do—but I think I’m doing okay.

In one oven, the garlic bread is baking. In the other, I preheat the temperature as I assemble the manicotti, filling each shell with the cheesy mix under Cas’s watchful eye. He kneels on the counter so he can see every move. Once the shells are stuffed and nestled in a layer of sauce, I cover them with cheese, place the pan in the oven, and just as I close the door, I hear my phone ring in the living room.

“I’ll get it!” Cas jumps from the counter and races to the phone.

I’m about to pull out the bread when he walks back in, his face crinkling with a slight frown as he stretches the phone toward me.

“It’s Ivy. She sounds… funny”

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