Page 65 of Trapped By the Blood Ruby

He considered the question.

Vittorio must have read his expression because he said, “You never cared about your previous amplifiers.”

“This one is different.”

“How?”

“She makes me feel something.” The admission tasted foreign on his tongue.

Vittorio hummed. “It’s been a long time since you’ve felt much of anything, I think.”

He calmly placed his hands behind his back again. “I need to fix this. How do I do that?”

“I have some ideas, but I’m still too angry with you over the matter. You will have to figure it out on your own.”

“Bastard.”

“Can you blame me? This is your mess. Why, then, should I fix it for you?”

Laurent closed his eyes. “You are right. Very well. I’ll take care of it.” He gave Vittorio a nod, then disappeared into his study. He took a seat behind the desk and pulled up the article he’d first read, Lily’s feature in the university’s announcement. He reread it. Then he pulled up her social media account.

He’d been doing this all week—scrolling through her life, learning who she really was rather than who he’d assumed her to be.

He would never admit it to Vittorio, and certainly not Zola.

Photos slid by in columns. They depicted the mundane aspects of her life: beaches, food, sunsets, snapshots of mathematical derivations, her time volunteering, swim meets, and other events. One photo made him pause. His lips twitched despite himself. It was a close up of her face, black hair piled into a messy bun atop her head. She was sitting in a cafe at a small table, biting into a giant cinnamon bun, frosting smudged on the tip of her nose. She was mid-bite and smiling. He could almost feel the excitement in her expression. The caption read, There is nothing better than a warm cinnamon roll and a cup of hot chocolate. Prove me wrong.

He scrolled on, clicking another. She held a puppy cuddled against her. Her face was transformed—a wide smile and soft eyes—looking down at the little ball of golden fur. Dreaming of the day I can become a dog mom. He lingered over her face. Over the joy and yearning.

Something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.

Another photo was taken at a car wash fundraiser. She wore a modest one-piece suit and shorts. Someone was spraying her with a hose. Her face was both shocked and delighted, hands outstretched as if she could stop the onslaught of water. The chuckle that escaped him was rusty—when was the last time he’d laughed? The caption read, Swim team fundraisers wouldn’t be the same without getting a little wet.

He continued to scroll, clicking and reading captions. At last, he had a better idea of what to do. He made a few calls, saw to some of the business requiring his attention, and lost track of time. Vittorio knocked at his door before poking his head in to say, “Shall I bring your dinner up, sire?”

“Yes, please,” he answered, continuing to work. A moment later, Vittorio was back with a tray and glass of wine. Setting everything out, he waited to be dismissed.

“Miss Shaw?” he demanded, studying his meal and noticing the salad.

“She’s all right. She enjoyed helping with dinner. She’s in her room now, eating.”

“Good.” He hesitated. “How long would it take to make cinnamon rolls?”

“Cinnamon rolls, sire?” Vittorio stared at him. “Is this for Miss Shaw?”

“How—?”

“She’s made her love of them known.”

“You’ve already made them for her?”

“A few times.”

A pointless breath blew from his lungs. Well, there went that. Except… He leaned back in his chair, contemplative. “How long would it take you to teach me?”

Vittorio’s lips parted. “You, sire? You wish to…?”

Laurent gave him pointed stare.