Page 52 of The Diávolos: Part One
He messages me when he wakes up, up until he goes to bed, and keeps me updated on his injury. Two days after the shooting, he was cleared to move back into his penthouse to continue healing. That same day, I came home to a bouquet of peonies and a poem that filled my chest with butterflies.
There’s something about feeling
devoid of someone.
There’s something about feeling
devoid of someone.
No matter how much you try,
the hole doesn’t fill.
Nothing compares
to the real thing.
You.
I’d missed being on the receiving end of these love tokens. Since finding out it had been him all along, the absence of his gifts and attention was even stronger. The lack of a presence looming in the shadows created an emptiness. For the first time, it felt lonely not having a ghost around me.
I was ready to scold him for not following the doctor’s orders, but he assured me that he’d sent someone else to leave the flowers. The need to see him increased as he filled my screen with the most meaningful words, leaving me weak, but filling me with power.
Evan: My bed here doesn’t smell like you. Amidst all the chaos, that was the only thing keeping me sane.
I vividly remember falling asleep next to him while he slept off the sedation and waking up to his piercing hazel eyes boring into my soul. I could see pain, confusion, and awe. His eyes spoke a thousand words, revealing what his tongue could never express. It felt like I’d caught something I wasn’t supposed to see, but instead of turning away, I stared back. I can still feel his lingering gaze on my skin.
I need to see him, but I don’t want to impact his recovery with my presence.
Through our many conversations, I learned that it’s hard for him to sit still and not be productive. He’s had to delegate his workload to Dion until he’s able to go back to work, and that quickly turned him into a helicopter boss. Dion soon had enough of the micromanaging and threatened to block his number. I couldn’t help but laugh.
I lie in bed restless, thinking of what has happened in the past three weeks, as every moment runs through my mind, repeatedly. Ever since uncovering Evan’s true identity, I’ve had a hard time coming to terms with him being both my stalker and the man I fell in lust with at the shooting range.
You care about him.I finally admit to myself.
But does he? It might just be an infatuation, and like everything new, the allure could fade when it’s no longer exciting. I shouldn’t run into the arms of obsession if it’ll eventually wither away.
Evan’s life is still a huge mystery. I’ve never heard of him, and I don’t know which family he comes from, but if he was ever involved in the mafia, I’d like to think I would’ve known.
Then again, I was gone for four years and cut all ties with my father. Before I moved away to Antium City, I was checked out and only going through the daily motions. I barely left the house, other than to accompany my father around, and I was never privy to conversations.
My mind goes back to the night of the gala. All I can think about is the way Evan looked at me from across the ballroom, and I feel a mixture of frustration and lust. Frustration, because he had no right to accuse me of doing something wrong by being there with someone else. Lust, because the sensation of his gaze on my skin still sends ripples of excitement through my body.
Those same feelings had surfaced when I saw him at Academia, and he’d pierced my soul with his claiming gaze. That look had set me on fire, and I knew I didn't want to be touched by any other man in the club that night, or ever again, for that matter.
He’d looked at me like I was his. His eyes had feasted on my every move, and I couldn’t help but feel desired. I wanted him to stop watching me, but at the same time, I’d loved the way his eyes had devoured me with such greediness. The tension between us was too much then, and it’s too much now as I lie in bed alone.
My phone rings and snaps me out of my daze. I hastily grab it and see Evan’s name on the screen.
Speaking of the devil.
I let it ring once more before I swipe to answer, my voice low and husky. “Hi.”
“Angelica,” he replies, his voice smooth like butter. “Am I interrupting something?” he asks.
“No…I’m just lying in bed.”
“Hmm…thinking of me, I hope,” he flirts.
