Page 25 of His to Destroy

The one I gave her. The one that’s supposed to be hers alone.

At first, I lied to myself. I told Enzo I was conducting inspections. That I needed to be hands-on with the new security setup. That I was only staying over when necessary.

But now I don’t bother with excuses.

I go because she’s there.

And because I don’t know how not to.

The first night I stayed late, Luca had begged me to stay for dinner. He looked up at me with those wide, unwavering eyes—Almeria’s eyes, only untouched by bitterness—and I hadn’t known how to say no.

So I stayed.

She didn’t tell me to leave.

The second night, I brought him a book on ancient gladiators. His face lit up as he pointed to a warrior and said, “That one looks like you.” Almeria rolled her eyes and said, “Because he’s holding a sword and glaring?” But she didn’t stop me from reading the first few pages to him while he sprawled across the rug, listening with open awe.

By the end of the week, I had my own coffee mug in the kitchen.

It’s the small things that start to slip.

I notice when she changes the curtains in the living room. She’s gone from icy gray to something warmer—moss green with golden thread. She says it was just what was available at the store, but I know better. I see her making space, little by little.

Not for me. Not yet.

But for something that looks suspiciously like peace.

I never bring it up.

Tonight, I’m standing outside the garden doors, watching the dusk settle in behind the mansion. Almeria’s in the kitchen, slicing fruit. Luca is sprawled on the floor with his blocks, building what looks like a crude version of the Colosseum. He tells me he’s making it “for warriors like you.”

My chest tightens.

“I’m not a warrior,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “Mama says you fight monsters.”

I glance at her. She says nothing, her eyes locked on the watermelon she’s slicing. Doesn’t even say anything to Luca.

I don’t even know if I should feel flattered.

And somehow, that hurts more than it should.

I sleep in the guest suite at the end of the hall where Luca and Almeria’s rooms are. Every night, just before midnight, or right after, I hear Luca’s door open and his noisy footsteps make his way to his mother’s room.

I’ve come to listen for it. And I almost always fall asleep shortly after he goes into her room. Almost like my mind is calm knowing that he’s not alone and is safe in his mother’s arms. A luxury I can’t boast of.

I could stay elsewhere—somewhere more strategic, less entangled—but the truth is, I sleep better here. Not well. Not deeply. But better.

Sometimes I hear her moving in the hallway at night. Light footsteps. A creak of the floorboards. She never comes to my door. Never knocks. But she pauses outside it long enough for me to know she’s there.

I never open it.

I think we’re both afraid of what might happen if I did.

One morning, I find her in the sunroom, barefoot, sitting cross-legged on the chaise lounge. She’s reading a novel, her face soft in the golden light, her robe slipping slightly off one shoulder.

She doesn’t notice me at first.

---