Chapter 18
Laurent stood with hands clasped behind his back to keep his fists from clenching. The window overlooked the garden below, giving him a view of Lily. She sat sipping the iced tea Vittorio had brought her.
He’d given her an entire week, careful to keep his distance. Today had been a test—to see how she would react to his presence, to see if she’d healed.
“Well?” he said as Vittorio appeared beside him, mirroring his stance.
“She has calmed somewhat. Agreed to help with dinner this evening. She likes lasagna.” He hesitated, and then, “How bad was it?”
“Bad,” Laurent admitted. “The moment I stepped in the room, it’s like she was being tortured all over again. I could barely stomach the scent of it poisoning her lovely essence. She lasted all of five seconds in my presence before she fled. She can’t stomach me.”
Vittorio let out an unnecessary sigh, but said nothing.
“I’ve given her space. The journal seemed to help. I don’t know what more to do.”
“These things take time, sire. She suffered a highly traumatic ordeal.”
“I wasn’t the one wielding the blade,” he hissed.
“No, but you gave her to those who did.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face, knowing he was to blame.
Zola had given Lily a brief explanation, that the handoff was meant to be a ruse, a way to use her as bait for information.
She was never meant to go farther than the road leading from the manor.
Marco and his team were meant to intercept her, kill the witches, and bring her home.
“She suffered for years, sire.” Vittorio gazed down at Lily, his eyes unfocused. “Her entire childhood into adulthood. We cannot begin to understand what she endured before reaching our doorstep.”
“I grossly misjudged her,” he admitted, still angry with himself. He’d taken one look at her and made assumptions—wrong ones. So horribly wrong. “There was so much fire in her those first few days. She seemed unbreakable—a fighter who’d already survived hell and come out swinging.”
“Many of us carry invisible wounds, sire. You should understand that better than anyone.”
Laurent huffed. “Indeed.”
“She showed some interest in piano,” Vittorio mused.
“Yes. I took the liberty of gifting her some new music. I left it on her bed before seeking her out in the library.”
“It won’t be enough,” Vittorio said.
“Why?”
“You must see it from her perspective, sire. Her fear of you borders on terror. On the surface, she believes you will not hurt her again. Zola’s reassurances have made that clear.
But deep down, her trauma was because of you.
That has left its mark. She’s been passed from family to family.
Always unwanted. She came here, and after two attempts at escape, she was handed to the witches and tortured. ”
He swore. Somewhere from the depths of his mind, the words she’d said to him, spoken in near unconsciousness, came back. “She said something, when I carried her into the house after Henrietta. She said that no one had ever wanted to keep her.”
“And what did you say in return?”
His hands dropped, fists opening and closing. Below, Lily took another sip of her iced tea, oblivious to his prying eyes.
“I told her…” He swallowed. “I told her I would never let anyone have her.”
Vittorio swore under his breath. “And then you went and handed her over.”
The ultimate betrayal. Was it so horrible that there would be no coming back from it? No, he refused to believe that. “I have much to atone for, if I am to fix this.”
Vittorio hummed. “And do you, sire—want to fix it?”
He considered the question.
Vittorio must have read his expression because he said, “You never cared about your previous amplifiers.”
“This one is different.”
“How?”
“She makes me feel something.” The admission tasted foreign on his tongue.
Vittorio hummed. “It’s been a long time since you’ve felt much of anything, I think.”
He calmly placed his hands behind his back again. “I need to fix this. How do I do that?”
“I have some ideas, but I’m still too angry with you over the matter. You will have to figure it out on your own.”
“Bastard.”
“Can you blame me? This is your mess. Why, then, should I fix it for you?”
Laurent closed his eyes. “You are right. Very well. I’ll take care of it.
” He gave Vittorio a nod, then disappeared into his study.
He took a seat behind the desk and pulled up the article he’d first read, Lily’s feature in the university’s announcement.
He reread it. Then he pulled up her social media account.
He’d been doing this all week—scrolling through her life, learning who she really was rather than who he’d assumed her to be.
He would never admit it to Vittorio, and certainly not Zola.
Photos slid by in columns. They depicted the mundane aspects of her life: beaches, food, sunsets, snapshots of mathematical derivations, her time volunteering, swim meets, and other events.
One photo made him pause. His lips twitched despite himself.
It was a close up of her face, black hair piled into a messy bun atop her head.
She was sitting in a cafe at a small table, biting into a giant cinnamon bun, frosting smudged on the tip of her nose.
She was mid-bite and smiling. He could almost feel the excitement in her expression.
The caption read, There is nothing better than a warm cinnamon roll and a cup of hot chocolate. Prove me wrong.
He scrolled on, clicking another. She held a puppy cuddled against her. Her face was transformed—a wide smile and soft eyes—looking down at the little ball of golden fur. Dreaming of the day I can become a dog mom. He lingered over her face. Over the joy and yearning.
Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.
Another photo was taken at a car wash fundraiser.
She wore a modest one-piece suit and shorts.
Someone was spraying her with a hose. Her face was both shocked and delighted, hands outstretched as if she could stop the onslaught of water.
The chuckle that escaped him was rusty—when was the last time he’d laughed?
The caption read, Swim team fundraisers wouldn’t be the same without getting a little wet.
He continued to scroll, clicking and reading captions. At last, he had a better idea of what to do. He made a few calls, saw to some of the business requiring his attention, and lost track of time. Vittorio knocked at his door before poking his head in to say, “Shall I bring your dinner up, sire?”
“Yes, please,” he answered, continuing to work. A moment later, Vittorio was back with a tray and glass of wine. Setting everything out, he waited to be dismissed.
“Miss Shaw?” he demanded, studying his meal and noticing the salad.
“She’s all right. She enjoyed helping with dinner. She’s in her room now, eating.”
“Good.” He hesitated. “How long would it take to make cinnamon rolls?”
“Cinnamon rolls, sire?” Vittorio stared at him. “Is this for Miss Shaw?”
“How—?”
“She’s made her love of them known.”
“You’ve already made them for her?”
“A few times.”
A pointless breath blew from his lungs. Well, there went that. Except… He leaned back in his chair, contemplative. “How long would it take you to teach me?”
Vittorio’s lips parted. “You, sire? You wish to…?”
Laurent gave him pointed stare.
A small, incredulous laugh burst from Vittorio’s chest. “Has logic failed me, because it sounds like you’re asking me to teach you to bake.”
“Vittorio.” The word came out a growl.
Vittorio’s face lit up with wicked delight. “I can walk you through it. But it will take several hours.”
“Several—?!”
“And I’m not lifting a single finger. Not even a pinky.”
Glaring was beneath him, and yet, he shot Vittorio his best glare.
The man only huffed and said, “I’m assuming you want this to be a surprise?”
“Obviously.”
“All right, then give her some time to finish dinner. She always brings her tray down afterward. Come to the kitchen around eight.”
“Fine. I’ll bring my tray when I do. Thank you for dinner, Vittorio.”
An hour and a half later, he found himself in the kitchen. True to his word, Vittorio walked him through the process of first mixing the dough and then kneading it; he seemed to take immense satisfaction in every one of Laurent’s struggles. “Does it really take an entire hour to rise? Can’t we—“
“That is the key to good bread, sire. In the mean time, we can make the cinnamon mixture.”
They set it aside and began on the filling. “I don’t usually do anything beyond the norm,” Vittorio explained. “How about a touch of orange, to make it special? Miss Shaw is sure to love that.”
“Orange would pair well with hot chocolate,” he mused, thoughtful.
“Hot chocolate, too? Ambitious.”
“Only after you show me how to make it,” he admitted.
This entire experience was making something all too clear. He’d grown too reliant on Vittorio. He didn’t need to eat to live. It was an indulgence, but only just. Certainly not as pleasing as wine and absolutely nowhere near as delectable as blood.
Vittorio walked him through every step without lifting a finger: rolling out the soft dough, spreading the cinnamon orange mixture, spiraling it, then cutting it with string to form each roll. He nearly groaned when Vittorio informed him they needed yet another hour to rise.
“We can make the frosting and prep the hot chocolate while we wait,” Vittorio advised.
It was nearly ten thirty when he knocked on Lily’s door—later than he’d anticipated. “Come in,” she called, far too blasé to realize who it was. Probably assuming it was Zola.
He hesitated, but did not open the door. He knew how she would react if he did. “It’s Laurent,” he warned. A long silence followed. In that silence he heard her heart rate through the door. It sped up, closely followed by the rising scent of her panic.
“I only wanted to drop something off for you,” he added, keeping his voice soft. “I can leave it here on the floor, if you wish.”
He’d hoped to see her reaction over the rolls, but…