I don’t make another comment as she takes my arm, and I escort her outside. I don’t miss the way she begins to breathe deeply as soon as the fresh air hits her face. I don’t hold back a smile when she takes in the view before her.
Gravel paths wind through a maze of fragrant blooms and towering cypress trees, their shapes casting long, dappled shadows in the late afternoon sun.
There is a spattering of ruined walls and beyond them, cultivated vegetation that lies in the distant vineyards, months away from harvest now. The grounds stretch on for miles. It would be impossible to explore them all in one day, but I’m content with trying.
We walk in companionable silence, admiring the flowers, avoiding all the things we should probably say.
But when I look over at her, she has her head tilted toward the sky, a small smile playing on her lips. And it’s hard not to want to share in that small joy.
“So,” I say casually.
“So,” she agrees.
Our footsteps crunch along the gravel in tandem.
“How’s your day going so far?”
She glances at me with a smirk. “Fine, I guess.”
“What have you been getting up to?”
“In my glorified prison cell?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve always wondered what you do with all that time on your hands.”
“When I’m not listening to you complaining about how hard your life is, you mean?” She gestures around for emphasis.
“Indulge me.”
“How do you expect me to answer that? You know already. ”
“I’m curious.”
Her eyes narrow. “Fine. Besides eating and sleeping and strategizing all the ways I could possibly wring your stupid neck…I alternate between practicing Italian curses and pleasuring myself.”
She delivers the words with such indifference it takes me a moment to realize what she’s said.
I swallow hard and attempt to match her tone. “And have you noticed much progress?”
“My tutelage has left something to be desired,” she quips back. “But then again, I’ve been learning from a book.”
“I wasn’t talking about Italian.”
She turns around to me, a smug smile on her face. “I know. But the sentiment still applies.”
I find myself stepping forward to crowd her. “I can’t recall you complaining before.”
“That’s because I find it difficult to fuck myself with my own fingers when I know what yours feel like now.” Bold. Petulant. Challenging.
There she goes, blindsiding me again.
The garden suddenly feels alive around us, with the hum of bees in the air and the rustle of leaves in the soft breeze.
I have to remind myself that we’re not alone. That, between the gardeners and the patrolling members of the Grasso di Ferro and the windows of the castle behind us, there’s no escaping scrutiny.
But I can’t stand this tension a moment longer.
I snatch up her wrist and half drag her across the gardens toward the only place I can think of that will give us even a slight semblance of privacy.
