Page 27 of The Last Feast
Finishedwith her shower and wrapped in a fluffy robe that feels like clouds and smells like flowers, Hana walks through the large house, taking in the ornate décor. Gold inlays separate the darkwood panels on the floor, and crystal chandeliers sparkle above her no matter which room she enters.
But when she reaches the ground floor and smells the sugar in the air as the man who stole her knife softly hums, all the luxury around her may as well be rusted and rotten.
Auguste showered at the same time as her in one of the other bathrooms, so if anyone witnessed them, they’d assume it’s a normal domestic routine, with Auguste cooking in his boxers and Hana slowing her steps to watch him without getting caught.
The eight-seater marble island is full of different items: scrambled eggs, fruit, cereal, long loaves of warmed bread. But she smiles at the sight ofhimcooking forher. He turns with items she’s never seen before stacked on a spatula before she’s had her fill. His smile is slow as he takes in her bare features, and it makes his voice slower too. “Come here, beautiful.”
Hana’s cheeks heat as she nervously makes her way to him, tucking her hands into the deep pockets of the gown. She stops short of him by two feet and focuses on the spread he’s prepared. Auguste doesn’t allow that to deter him as he curls his fingers over the belt tied at her waist and pulls her closer. He drops the spatula on a porcelain plate as he turns her so her back is pressed against the marble edge then dips his head to catch her eyes.
She quickly looks at him then diverts her eyes under the intensity in his stare. It makes him smile wider as he satisfies his curiosity regarding her freckles. He softly presses his lips to each cluster spreading across the highs of her cheekbones and the bridge of her nose.
“Clever girl,” he whispers when he finishes the line at her cheek. “My clever Hana.”
All Hana has ever been called is stupid, a stupid girl who does everything incorrectly. Hearing him call her clever mendsthe thorns she grew around her heart to protect herself from the harshness of the Sisters of St. Agnes’ orphanage.
Tipping her chin up on his knuckles, Auguste asks, “Will you let daddy feed his clever girl?”
She nods once, fearful of the care he’s showing her.
Many people have referred to themselves as Hana’s daddy when she was pimped out to pay for her upkeep at the orphanage. Then, it felt like they were taunting her for being an orphan; now, it feels like Auguste is pledging to care for her, to protect her and nourish her with more than food.
He lifts her up to sit on the marble then smoothly steps between her thighs before carefully selecting the best berries to feed her. The juices wash the cake of his voice from her tongue, but she’s wrapped in his attention, so she doesn’t spit it out.
Every bite she swallows is rewarded with his soft lips against her cheek. “Good girl,” he whispers and strokes her hair back as she swallows. “There’s no tomorrow, so I’m going to feed you like this forever. Do you want chocolate chip or blueberry?”
“I’ve never had blueberries.”
Auguste’s face falls, and he looks behind him at the empty punnet. He used the berries in the pancake mix, so there’s none left for her to try on their own. Apology fills his voice as he looks back at her, massaging her thigh. “We’ll have them another time. They’re sweeter like this though.”
He pierces one of the mini pancakes with a fork then blows on it to make sure it doesn’t burn her tongue before bringing it to her lips. Hana moves back, asking, “What is it?”
“Pancakes, baby. They have blueberries in them. Do you want chocolate chip instead?”
“It’s cake…?” She naively looks up at him as her cheeks burn. “But small?”
There’s no judgment as he nods, softening his voice. “Yeah. Just small cakes.”
Hana opens her mouth, eager to taste the difference between the cake of his voice and the cake he’s made. She narrows her eyes when the sugar and tart blueberries greet her tastebuds. It’s not close to the smoothness of Auguste’s voice, so she swallows, rinses it away with water, then plucks a chocolate chip pancake up to test that.
“This,”she thinks, nodding to herself. Taking another, she pulls on his jaw then places it on his tongue. He closes his lips while her two fingers are still in his mouth and lightly sucks, making her squirm.
Hana places her palm flat on his chest to feel his heart beating as she slowly pulls her fingers out of his mouth. Watching him chew, she explains, “That’s your voice.”
A small crease forms between his brows.
“Your voice. You know how everyone can taste voices, sounds? It tastes like the small cake, but more.” Her voice gets softer and slower the longer he stares at her, becoming more perplexed at her explanation.
He shakes his head. “I can’t… No one can taste voices, baby.”
The hardest gap for someone with limited interactions with other people is that they don’t know anything beyond their own normal. Hana has spent her life knowing her circumstances were different. She didn’t go to a school like the wealthy children or go on holidays. She never had stories read to her like the other children in the orphanage who remembered having parents. But she never thoughtshewas different.
All she can say with that realization is a meek, “Oh.”
Auguste quickly picks her mood up, along with her chin. “It’s your secret power. I knew you weren’tjustHana. What does your voice taste like?”
“Bread.”
He laughs in disbelief.
