Chapter 14 #2
She asks a few questions, mostly about the work itself. At first, I enjoy the conversation, but as it goes on, I wish I’d kept my mouth shut and never commented on her bread.
I don’t know what’s going on with the bakery, and I’m not sure I want to know what Sabrina’s done to it in my absence. Can she actually make changes without me being there? God, I don’t even know if half is mine.
“What day is it?” I ask, needing to know so I can talk to Raffaele about Mom’s estate documents.
When she tells me, I roll my lower lip between my teeth. I’ve been here for nearly a week. In some ways, it feels longer. In others, just the blink of an eye. Being trapped in that room has really messed with my sense of time.
Susan eyes me, and for a second, I swear I see sympathy on the older woman’s face. “Do you like to read?” she asks, changing the conversation so fast I get emotional whiplash.
“Umm… sure.”
“Wait here.”
She disappears briefly, and when she returns, she’s carrying two well-worn paperbacks.
“Thought these might help pass the time,” she says, placing them on the counter beside me. “The days can get extremely long when you’re alone with your thoughts.”
I stare at the books; romance novels with creased spines and faded covers. One shows a broad-shouldered man in period clothing, holding a woman whose dress is slipping artfully from one shoulder.
“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched by the gesture.
“They’re a bit silly,” Susan admits with a small smile, “but sometimes silly is exactly what we need.”
I tuck the books under my arm and retreat upstairs to my room.
Despite the freshly made bed, I opt to sit on the windowsill that overlooks snowy grounds. Both books rest in my lap. ‘Count of Her Heart’ and ‘The Duke’s Due’. I don’t read the synopsis on the back. Instead, I decide to let the hierarchy of nobility decide the order and start at the bottom.
‘The Duke’s Due’ it is.
After two days of Susan showing up and escorting me downstairs to eat, it no longer surprises me.
She’s nice enough, but she refuses to let me help with anything. I just sit there, eating alone, while she prepares and brings me stuff. It’s awkward and so not me.
It’s especially hard not to butt in when I can smell she’s used too much salt and butter on the fresh rolls she takes out of the oven.
While she pours freshly made lemonade, I look around, noticing details I’ve missed the previous days. As a baker, I can’t help but appreciate the professional-grade appliances. The range alone is bigger than the one at my bakery.
Someone who understands food and values the craft of cooking has obviously designed this kitchen. It’s the first thing about this place that feels remotely comforting.
“Why isn’t Raffaele coming to eat when he wants me to?” I ask when she’s plated up pasta salad, those rolls, and cold-cuts of ham.
The food’s delicious. Well, not so much the rolls. But the rest tastes great, and so does the lemonade. I’m about to tell her this when she finally decides to answer my question.
“He’s been handling some business.” Her tone is colder now, and her smile is completely gone.
Does she know I see him in the library at night, across the chessboard while the fire crackles?
I try not to blush as I recall the way the fire makes his face look like something carved out of shadow and sin. Or the way I allow him to kiss me after he walks me to my room when we’re done.
“What kind of business?” I press, knowing she won’t answer but unable to stop myself from asking.
As expected, Susan just gives me a look that says I’ve overstepped. “The kind that pays for the food you’re eating,” she replies evenly. “Now finish up. I have work to do.”
Right. Must not waste time. I have to get back to… nothing.
“Is he coming back today?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
Susan’s eyes flick to mine, and for a second, I wonder if she hears what I don’t say. I want to see him.
“Back?” she questions, somehow making me sound wrong for assuming he’s been gone. Susan smiles and throws her arms out wide. “You may not know how big this house is, Alina. But just because you haven’t seen him doesn’t mean he isn’t here.”
Okay, she got me there. I have no way of knowing how big or how small his home is since I haven’t exactly been exploring every room. But it doesn’t matter whether he’s in the house or not. What I’m really asking is whether he’ll just suddenly show up.
The one thing I know is that he’s the kind of man I need to prepare myself for beforehand. Even though there’s no way to prepare for the devil, I’m doing my best.
I’m already wondering what he’ll ask tonight.
“Have you started the books yet?”
Susan’s question rips me out of my thoughts just as I swallow the last bite of food. I make a vague sound while I finish chewing. “Yep.”
“Which one did you pick?”
I tell her the title but not anything else. Luckily, she doesn’t press or ask what I think about reading a book with the same setting as my life.
Once we’re done and she’s reluctantly allowed me to help her clean up, I return to my room and pick up the book. The afternoons blur like this now. Reading. Waiting. Listening for footsteps that aren’t Susan’s.
This time I make myself comfortable on the bed with Onyx, eager to dive back into the fictional dukedom in an undefined historical period. A poor family with mounting debts. A ruthless duke with a reputation for collecting what he’s owed.
My fingers tighten on the book’s worn spine. The parallel is too obvious to ignore—a woman traded to settle a debt she didn’t create. I should put it down and find something else to occupy my mind. Instead, I turn page after page.
The Duke in the story is nothing like Raffaele in appearance—he’s blond where Raffaele is dark, short where Raffaele is tall. But the way he moves through his world with absolute certainty—the way others bend to his will—hits uncomfortably close to home.
As the story progresses, the Duke’s initial coldness toward his acquisition begins to thaw. He touches her with increasing tenderness, though always maintaining control. The descriptions become more explicit, more intimate.
‘You belong to me now,’ he whispered against the shell of her ear, his hands claiming the curves of her body with possessive heat. ‘Every inch of you is mine to command, mine to pleasure.’
Heat rises to my face as I read, spreading down my neck and across my chest.
I’ve never gotten wet from words on a page. Never felt my nipples harden just because of ink and paper. But my body doesn’t care that this is fiction. It reacts anyway—heat pooling low, slick and undeniable, my thighs pressing together on instinct.
I snap the book shut, setting it hastily on the nightstand as if it’s burned me. Maybe it has. I’ve never read anything like this before.
The few romance novels I borrowed from the library as a teenager were tame, all longing glances and chaste kisses, the bedroom door firmly closed before anything truly intimate occurred.
I don’t think it’s possible to live in this day and age without knowing how sex works. Just because I’ve never done it doesn’t mean my body is ignorant.
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I open the book and continue reading.
It’s not until the sky outside my window turns black and the house settles into its usual silence that I realize something else has become routine. I don’t picture a blond duke anymore.
I picture green eyes, a rough voice, and a hand sliding beneath… oh God. My breath stutters. This isn’t just arousal. It’s recognition.
And that terrifies me.