Page 47 of Devour
One day blurs into the next, time sticking together like pages in a new, unopened book. There’s not much to do after exploring the entire house, and I’m not allowed to go out, Luca’s orders.
I’m starting to feel like a bird in a glided cage. Most of my afternoons are spent beside Noah, watching his favorite shows, listening to him hum while he draws.
He’s started asking questions, where we are, how I can afford a place like this. He even asked about Dr. Eli. I don’t know how much longer I can keep the truth from him. He’s a smart kid—too smart, sometimes.
When I’m not with him, I’m either in the kitchen taking cooking lessons from Griselda. I spend hours practicing, cooking for no one in particular since Noah still can’t eat unsupervised food but I do it anyway.
I wasn’t much of a cook before, but I try. Noah has never complained about my food, though he’s not a picky eater.
If I’m not doing that, I’m usually exploring the library. There’s a surprising variety of books far more than I expected from someone like Luca.
I always imagined him as the type to own only classics like Pride and Prejudice just for show. But his shelves are stocked with everything from political thrillers and military history to noir crime, biographies of world leaders, and strategy books, things you’d expect a mafia boss to study.
What surprises me most, though, are the rom-coms and contemporary romances all from my favorite authors. Luca always claimed romance novels were too cheesy for him.
I remember our first real date outside his house when I finally convinced him to agree to a picnic in the park. I brought my favorite romance book and pulled it out while we lay on the blanket.
He looked at me like I’d asked him to do something scandalous. But in the end, he let me read it to him. He laid his head on my thighs while I read to him. Halfway through the book, he was already asleep.
His face looked so angelic, so peaceful, that I stopped reading and gently traced a finger from his forehead to the tip of his pointy nose, then down to his lips. Suddenly, his hand caught mine, making me jump a little—like I’d just been caught doing something secret.
He opened his eyes slowly and pressed the back of my hand to his lips, kissing it softly before resting it on his chest.
“You woke me,” he muttered groggily.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I was dreaming.”
“About?” I asked, my voice low.
“Us… in a few years. In our own house. Together.” He closed his eyes again, like he could still see it. “And we have a little one. Maybe a mini-me. Or a mini-you. She has your beautiful eyes. Your smile.”
“We won’t be having any of that if you keep failing your classes,” I teased, nudging him gently. As if I’d shattered his perfect little daydream, he groaned and buried his face in my stomach, wrapping his arms around me.
“So…” I began, but before I could finish, he started tickling me. I tried to speak through hysterical laughter, gasping, “am—sorry—wait—I can’t—talk—!”
Moments like that made it hard to believe someone so sweet could become this cold. He always had a distant look in his eyes, and I used to think it was just grief from losing his father. Now… I’m not so sure.
I crawl out of bed, unable to sleep. The memories I buried deep are starting to rise like smoke. The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. The sole of my slippers makes a soft sound as I move quietly toward the library.
Everyone has gone to bed, and even if they haven’t, I highly doubt the noise I’m making is enough to disturb them, the house is freaking huge. The bedroom alone is big enough to fit all the rooms in my old house.
Luca still isn’t back from work. But at this point, I’m not sure it’s really work that’s keeping him out this late every night. I should ask, but I know he won’t want to talk to me. It feels like he can’t wait to get away from me.
He hasn’t tried to touch me again since he left me hot and bothered four nights ago. Well… not while I’m awake, at least.
Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I feel the bed shift. A heavy arm wraps around my waist. Warm breath brushes the nape of my neck.
His presence slips into my dreams, and for a fleeting moment, I believe he’s still here. But by morning, he’s already gone. And I pretend I imagined it.
For the most part, I’ve come to accept this strange arrangement. But I still want to ask about my job. I can’t afford to be stranded when the time comes for me to leave with Noah.
I creep toward the study, pushing the door open just enough to glance inside. The room is dark, lit only by the soft glow of moonlight filtering through the windows. I scan the space behind his desk for any sign of movement—nothing.
The leather chairs near the window and by the bookshelves sit still in the silence. When I’m sure he’s not inside, I open the door fully, step in, and close it quietly behind me.
The study is connected to the library by a set of double doors, and I slip through them without turning on the lights. The moonlight is enough to guide me.
