17. Chapter Seventeen #2
Luca catches my calf and pulls me toward the edge of the bed.
My pulse jumps at the contact.
“Don’t be greedy.”
“And I’m the greedy one?”
I break off a small piece and hold it toward him.
He looks at it.
“You can do better.”
I take a larger bite and push it into his mouth.
His teeth graze the pad of my thumb.
The brief contact sends heat straight through me.
“There.”
I clear my throat.
“You can leave now.”
His hand lingers against my calf.
Then he releases me and rises.
“Stay with Claire.”
“I said I would.”
“Don’t leave the cottage alone.”
“I understand.”
“If someone you don’t recognize comes to the door—”
“Don’t invite him in for tea.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Luca looks at me for a moment longer.
The humor disappears from his face.
“I won’t be gone long.”
Something tight inside me relaxes.
“Fine.”
He turns toward Brock.
Then he looks back once before leaving the room.
The moment the door closes, I abandon the apple and press both hands against my chest.
My heart is beating far too fast.
My face is hot.
My thighs are still slick from his touch.
I don’t know how much longer I can survive this gradual burn without climbing onto Luca and demanding he finish what he keeps starting.
A smiling Claire appears in the doorway.
“Your bath.”
I force myself to stand.
“Thank you.”
I collect my apple and follow her before she can notice that my legs aren’t entirely steady.
Claire heats water over the stove and shows me to a small washroom at the back of the cottage.
There’s no enormous marble shower.
No heated floor.
No wall of expensive products selected by an assistant.
Only a deep metal tub, several buckets of hot water, handmade soap, and a towel rough enough to remove the top layer of my skin.
It feels luxurious.
I wash the smoke, dirt, and dried blood from my body.
I’m careful around the bandage on my arm and the cut near my temple.
Afterward, Claire gives me another dress.
Pale brown.
Soft from years of washing.
The hem barely reaches my knees, but it’s clean.
“It belonged to my daughter,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“She lives mainland now.”
Claire’s expression softens as she looks toward Julien playing near the stove.
“He stays with us often.”
I spend most of the day with her and Julien.
Claire bakes bread to sell from a table outside the cottage. Julien and two other village children—a red-haired boy named Rémy and his younger sister, Ana?s—run between the house and the harbor.
Ana?s decides my hair belongs to her.
She separates it into uneven sections, braids half of it, then fills the strands with tiny white flowers.
I let her.
Claire watches us with an amused smile.
“You are famous?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Why do you ask?”
“Julien says your face is on a shirt one boy wears.”
“I’m a singer.”
Claire nods as though that explains nothing.
“Good singer?”
“I like to think so.”
“You sing for us.”
It isn’t a question.
“Maybe.”
She accepts that answer.
Several villagers approach the bread table throughout the afternoon.
Most stare at me.
A few whisper.
One older woman makes the sign of the cross before turning away.
Brock and Claire may be popular, but their decision to shelter us has made people cautious.
Claire notices my discomfort.
“They fear trouble.”
“We didn’t bring the plane here intentionally.”
“They know.”
Her gaze moves toward the hills.
“But smoke brings questions. Questions bring mainland.”
“And they don’t want attention.”
“No.”
I understand that better than I expected.
My entire life exists beneath attention, and now I’m surrounded by people who have arranged their world to avoid it.
Luca and Brock return near sunset.
I know it’s them before I see them.
My body somehow recognizes Luca’s footsteps.
He enters the yard with dirt streaking his trousers and a dead rabbit hanging from one hand.
I stare.
“You killed that?”
“For dinner.”
“For me?”
“You can’t eat fish.”
A ridiculous warmth spreads through my chest.
He went hunting because of my allergy.
I fall a little harder for him.
Then I notice the expression beneath his calm exterior.
Something happened at the observation station.
“What did you find?”
Luca glances toward Claire and the children.
“Later.”
“That means something.”
“It means we’re not discussing it in front of them.”
Brock speaks rapidly to Claire.
Her expression changes.
She gathers Julien and calls Rémy and Ana?s closer.
“What is he telling her?”
“That no one is to go near the northern cliffs.”
“Why?”
Luca sets down the rabbit.
“The station has been used recently.”
“By the pilot?”
“We found aviation ration packaging and a strip torn from a flight chart.”
My stomach tightens.
“He’s there.”
“He was.”
“What does that mean?”
“The ashes in the stove were cold. He may have moved on.”
“To the village?”
“We don’t know.”
“And you’re telling me this calmly?”
“Panic won’t help.”
“I’m beginning to hate that sentence.”
“I know.”
He steps closer and lowers his voice.
“The handheld radio Brock remembered being stored at the station is missing.”
“So the pilot can call someone.”
“Possibly.”
“Or whoever helped him sabotage the plane.”
Luca’s jaw shifts.
“Yes.”
The answer scares me more because he doesn’t soften it.
“Then why are we staying here?”
“Because the open beach leaves us exposed, the sea is unsafe, and we have no confirmed transportation.”
His gaze holds mine.
“Until we create another option, this cottage is the most defensible position available.”
“Defensible.”
“That word again.”
“It matters.”
I look toward the pistol beneath his jacket.
“You think he might come here.”
“I think we assume he could.”
My eyes move toward the children.
Luca follows my gaze.
“Brock is warning the harbor master. They’ll organize watches around the village without explaining who you are.”
“What if someone here is helping him?”
“Then we’ll find out.”
The certainty in Luca’s voice steadies me despite the fear crawling beneath my skin.
Claire emerges from the house and announces dinner.
Brock cleans and prepares the rabbit while Luca checks the windows and doors for the second time.
He doesn’t leave me alone for the rest of the evening.
By nightfall, I’m more awake than ever.
I lie beside Luca in the narrow bed, staring into the darkness.
He sleeps on his stomach with his face turned toward the wall. One arm rests beneath the pillow, close to the pistol hidden there.
His breathing is steady.
I can feel the heat of his body along the entire length of mine.
The room is too small.
The bed is too small.
My need for him has become too large to contain.
I think about his hand beneath my dress that morning.
His fingers against me.
His mouth almost touching mine.
The quiet command in his voice when he made me say what I wanted.
Desire builds until the room feels airless.
I slip carefully from the bed.
Luca doesn’t move.
I find the borrowed dress hanging over the chair and pull it on, then leave the room without shoes.
The front door opens without a sound.
Cold air meets my face.
Relief follows immediately.
The wind whistles between the cottages and lifts the corners of the cloth covering Claire’s bread table.
Rocks hold the fabric in place.
Above me, stars scatter across the black sky.
The color reminds me of Luca’s hair.
Of course it does.
Everything reminds me of him now.
I miss home.
Dad.
Bran.
My music.
My own bed.
I remind myself that the supply boat should arrive in two days.