Page 49 of Devour
I sigh, pouting a little as I place the bouquet with the others on the floor. I give them one last lingering look before turning toward the bathroom. And stop short. Another surprise.
The bathtub is filled with warm milk, and an abundance of rose petals float on the surface, turning it into something out of a dream.
A squeal escapes me before I can stop it—high-pitched and girlish, like something out of a teen drama. I quickly strip, tossing my clothes into the corner, and slide into the bath with a deep sigh.
The warm milk caresses my skin, soft and silky. It feels decadent, soothing, like every inch of stress is being gently coaxed from my body. I don’t think I’ve ever treated myself to a day of relaxation like this.
It feels… indulgent. Luxurious. Good. I stay in the tub longer than I should, not wanting to leave. But when I finally emerge and wrap a towel around myself, my skin feels baby-soft. I hum to myself as I get dressed, unable to hide the smile playing on my lips.
When I head downstairs, I stop in my tracks. More flowers. They’re arranged in small vases and jars across the room—on the console table, by the staircase, even on thewindowsills. It’s as if the whole house is breathing with soft color and fragrance.
“My dear, you look…” Griselda says, eyeing me with a warm smile, “like happiness itself.”
I smile, ducking my head. “I feel… good. Really good.” “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many flowers outside of a flower shop,” I add, glancing around in awe.
“You deserve more,” she replies gently.
“Did you have a hand in any of this?”
“Me? No.” She shakes her head with a mischievous little grin.
“Really?”
“Well… this is all his idea. I maybe gave him a tiny nudge, but I think he went a little over the top.”
“You think this is over the top? There’s more than enough in the bedroom,” I say, half laughing, half overwhelmed.
“Then enjoy it,” she says simply.
My smile softens, but then falters. “Did you see him before he left?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Ah, yes. He told me to tell you not to wait up for him, that he’d be home late tonight.”
She must have caught the flicker in my expression.
“Don’t overthink it,” she says with a smile. “Just enjoy the day. Breathe in the flowers.”
I nod, forcing a smile, but something lingers—a question I don’t know how to ask. A tension I can’t quite name. Griselda gently nudges a vase closer to me.
“He’s trying, you know.”
I glance at her.
“He doesn’t say much. Men like him rarely do. But this”—she gestures to the flowers, the air still thick with their scent— “this is his way.”
I reach out, tracing the rim of the vase. A protea, wild and exotic, stands out among the rest. It’s striking. Strong. It would look good in his study.
“It’s just… hard to know what’s real with him sometimes.” Griselda shrugs as she folds a linen napkin.
“Maybe it’s all real. The anger, the silence… this softness too. Sometimes love doesn’t come wrapped in the words we expect.”
I don’t say anything, but something warm presses against my chest spreading just a little wider than before. Does he really feel something for me? Griselda brushes her hands clean.
“Now come. Eat something,” she says, guiding me toward the kitchen. “You’ve been floating around like a girl in a perfume ad.”
