Page 135 of Mine Again
Still, I have to admit, it’s almost a relief to finally get answers to questions that have haunted me for years, and to others I didn’t evenknow I should be asking.
Like the fact that my father betrayed everyone.
But questions still churn in my mind, refusing to let go. And I’m determined to get answers.
Though that would mean talking to Luca.
I haven’t said a word to him since I ran from the lookout. Not even after dinner, when I went in search of a guest room, only to discover there isn’t one.
Apparently, Luca doesn’t receive guests. And according to him, I don’t count as one because this is my home. Which means, of course, there’s only one bed.
I was too drained to argue. Too worn down to rage. I figured I’d lock the bedroom door and let him sleep wherever he pleased. The floor. The couch. His helicopter. I really didn’t care.
But of course the damn bedroom door didn’t have a handle. Or a lock.
Why would it? In theory, there’s no one here to lock yourself away from.
Not that it matters. This house, and the island it sits on, might as well be Fort Knox.
So I took a long, hot shower to ease the soreness in my body, found neatly folded pajamas inmycloset, and sprawled across the bed diagonally… just in case Luca got any ideas.
Apparently, it worked.
Where is he, anyway?
I sit up, listening for any sound from the bathroom, but the house is silent.
My gaze drifts across the room. Something past the edge of the mattress catches my eye.
Is that a foot?
I lean over the side of the bed, and, sure enough, there he is.
Luca is fast asleep on the floor, wrapped in a makeshift bed of blankets.
My heart stutters, picking up speed, even as my mind tries to reasonwith it.
I tilt my head, letting myself drink him in… just for a moment, while he’s asleep.
His features are calm, unguarded.
I hate it. I really do. Because to me, he’s still so perfect.
The neat trim of his facial hair. The memory of how it grazed my inner thighs on what I suppose was our wedding night.
And his lips are the perfect shade of pink, soft and full… and back in the day, they kissed me like I was the only thing that ever mattered.
One arm is tucked beneath his head, and I spot the edge of a tattoo peeking out from where his sleeve has ridden up.
I squint, trying to make out the delicate shape.
When did he get that?
It looks like a butterfly wing.
The flutters in my chest spread through every part of me.
I’m his butterfly. His little farfalla.
