Page 18 of Broken Innocence
Luca doesn’t deserve to see me prettied up for his benefit, not when he’s holding me captive.
“We’re not getting married.” The denial comes automatically. It’s what I say every time he brings up our impending nuptials.
He’s let me talk to my parents as long as I don’t mention my kidnapping and subsequent stay at Blackchapel Manor, and they haven’t said a word about me marrying Luca rather than Fabian.
Reaching forward for my drink, I wince at the pain in my ribs. Luca immediately notices and frowns. He grabs the cold coffee and lifts it to my lips.
I lightly swat his hand away. “I can manage by myself, thanks.” The bruises leftover from my ordeal with Fabian’s thugs are healing to an ugly yellowish color, but internally, it feels like I was punched just yesterday.
“You’re hurt. Let me help you,” Luca cajoles, shaking the icy drink. Reluctantly, I sip from the straw and swallow the sugary treat.
How did he even know this was my favorite flavor concoction?
***
MORE DAYS LATER
Credits start scrolling across the computer screen, and Luca sits up to press the spacebar to pause the video.
“Another episode?” he asks. Like it’s another casual Tuesday night. Like we’re a real couple watching TV in bed.
Covering a yawn, I shake my head. “I’m too tired, and this isn’t a show you can just zone out of. There’s too much you can miss.”
Luca had recommended we binge-watch something my second night at the manor. After a ton of searching, we finally settled on a historical drama mini-series. The episodes were long and elaborate but definitely worth the time to untangle all the webs the characters wove.
Under different circumstances, I would have loved enjoying something so basic with Luca. He fit my idea of the perfect boyfriend, one who didn’t mind my commentary during the show, and who even added his own wry observations.
But Luca isn’t my boyfriend.
And nothing about this situation is normal.
The laptop snaps closed, and Luca rolls from the bed with a sigh. At first, I thought he might insist on sharing the bed with me, since this is his room judging by his clothes in the closet and shaving accoutrements in the bathroom. But he’s never pushed for more. He leaves me alone each night like a gentleman.
It’s unnerving—a jailer with a moral code.
Of course, maybe he just doesn’t want to hear my squeaks of pain every time I toss and turn in the bed searching for a bruise-free, comfortable position to sleep in.
“Do you need anything before I go? Water?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks,” I mutter, avoiding his careful perusal.
“Alright, if you change your mind, you have my number. Don’t hesitate to text or call. I’m just across the hall.” His fingers comb through his hair, ruffling the thick strands, then he steps forward to drop a kiss on the top of my head.
I freeze at the contact.
This is new.
“Buonanotte, mia piccola farfalla. Prova a sognarmi, perché io sogno sempre te.[2]”
I’m still puzzling over what he said and processing the unexpected show of affection when he exits the room.
Nope, not normal at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EDEN
Fourteen days.
