Page 28 of His to Destroy

“And I can’t forget,” she adds.

“But you still let me in,” I say. “Why?”

She looks at me, really looks at me.

“Because you’re trying,” she says. “And because—God help me—I still want to believe there’s a part of you that’s worth saving.”

Her voice cracks on the last word.

And I don’t touch her.

I don’t lean in.

But I remember how to hope again.

I don’t know what we’re building.

I don’t know if it will last.

But I know that every night I spend here, in this mansion, in this strange, delicate balance between regret and redemption—

I feel less like a monster.

And more like a man. A man worthy of a second chance at love.

Chapter 8 – Almeria

There’s a strange calm in the days that follow the wedding. It’s not peace—not really. But it’s quieter. Measured. Like we’re all waiting for something to shatter.

The mansion is too large for comfort, too lavish for me to ever truly belong to it. But Luca… he’s blossoming.

He has definitely adjusted faster than I expected. He’s happy here. Safer. Busier. There’s a piano instructor who comes twice a week, a backyard larger than any playground we’ve seen, and a guard who teaches him to fence with foam swords.

Each morning he runs through the corridors like they’re his own personal racetrack. He names the statues in the hallways. Pretends the garden is a jungle and that he’s a knight, defending his fortress.

And Gaspare lets him.

He watches Luca with a reverence I don’t expect from a man like him. There’s no impatience in his voice when he listens to Luca ramble about imaginary battles. No stiffness when Luca climbs onto his lap to show him his newest drawing.

Sometimes I catch him smiling. Softly. Not the sharp, practiced kind he wears for the world. But the kind that sneaks out of people when they forget to guard themselves.

It unsettles me more than his silence ever did.

I spend most of my mornings alone in the sunroom. A book in hand, untouched tea on the table beside me. The quiet here has a weight. It presses in around me, reminding me constantly that I’m somewhere I was never supposed to be.

Sometimes, I hear him before I see him—his steps deliberate, slower now than before. Gaspare doesn’t announce himself. He never does. He simply appears, stands in the doorway with a cup of coffee, and watches me with those unreadable eyes.

Today, he joins me.

He doesn’t ask permission. Just takes the seat across from mine and stares out the window.

We don’t speak at first.

And then he says, “He looks like you.”

I glance at him.

“Luca.”

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