Page 23 of The Last Feast
He follows the uneasy cadence of her voice then wraps his arms around her waist from behind. Pressing his lips to her shoulder, he asks, “Areyoucold, baby?”
“No. I…”
Auguste patiently waits for her to gather her words as he continues kissing her shoulder, unaware it’s making it harder for Hana to understand what’s happening. Her earlier comment about being starved didn’t encapsulate the full spectrum of what she’s been denied.
Food isn’t the only thing withheld from her in her short life. No, she’s been starved of care, affection, respect. Any human need was purposefully absent in her life because those entrusted with her innocence stole it every chance they got. Born into systemic objectification didn’t leave her with any other option but to disengage with herself, not when she would create voices for bottles of bleach and wood polish so she had friends during her chores. She was forced to become just like them—an item on the shelf waiting to be bought and used up.
She’ll never know what it’s like to have a mother or a father. Those were the people who abandoned her, but she looked for them in every man and woman she met. Were their eyes the same color as hers? Perhaps they had freckles too? But she was only met with stern features and perverted gazes that bartered over her.
And that hope she thought had died sparks to life again with Auguste’s unconditional care. He’s not the father she wanted, but he provides a gentle authority that fulfills that portion of her decaying soul.
Inspiring fear and watching him run from her was easier to deal with than this expectation of Hana being capable of anything more. She’s feasted, hurt herself with the knowledge she’s found, so she bluntly says, “I’m not cold. You should run away now.”
He ignores the clothes she attempts to pass to him again. With audible hope building, he asks, “What happens if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll make you kill the woman who was raining on our time together.” She looks up at him over her shoulder, expecting to see disgust.
Shocking them both, Auguste smiles. “As long as you’re with me.”
“Didn’t you say you’re studying medicine?”
He nods.
“So why would you kill someone?” Hana turns to face him. “Isn’t that the opposite of what you should want?”
The warmth of his palm sliding across her cheek distracts her. When his fingers thread through her hair, she finds some of the fear leaves. He leans into her like the darkness doesn’t prevent him truly seeing Hana for who she is.
“If death will give life to something between us, then that’s what I’ll do.” He steps into her, covering her exposed body from the cold breeze drifting through the space. “I don’t know what this is, if it’s some wild memory of a woman I’ll think about on my deathbed or if it’s more, but I want the opportunity to find out. Break my heart, bite a chunk out of it, or mend it—I’m here to stay.”
Hana can’t bring herself to imagine holding his heart in her hands. She doesn’t want to study it or taste it; she wants to mendit when the jagged shards of her childhood have only ever cut everything she cared for.
So, she reminds herself of her plan as she whispers, “There’s no tomorrow.”
“That’s fine.” Auguste wraps his arms around her and kisses the top of her head. “I’ll keep living today with you until you’re ready for the sun to come up.”
15
UNTIED
AUGUSTE
Once we’ve cleaned ourselves and dressed—me in my jeans, Hana in my t-shirt—she tries to distance herself as she rotates the spotlight so it’s facing the ceiling. But she can’t escape me now that she’s captured my attention, so I thread my fingers through hers and pull her into my side.
She glares up at me, the spotlight casting menacing shadows on her face to match her tone. “Do you need to be tied up again?”
“You don’t want that to happen.”
“Really?” she deadpans, attempting to pull her hand free.
“Really,” I mimic her, giving her what neither of us want as I let go of her hand.
She can’t hide the disappointment or the way she stares at her now-free limb, curling her fingers in to trap the warmth of my hand.
The metallic creaking has become part of the environment I don’t care about, so I don’t look up when it gets louder, along with the muffled cries and steady drips of blood from Odette’s severed wrist. Neither does Hana—she gives me her fullattention while she lies, “I liked you better when you were tied up.”
“You like me better like this.” I take a step closer to her, and she takes one back.
“No, I don’t. You’re talking more and you don’t wait for permission to touch me.”
