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I am, of course.
But I'll be an idiot every day and night if it makes that sweet sound come from her when I do.
"I couldn't tell you. It was never in the news that my hymen was potentially intact, and my father never specifically asked about it. Thank god." A small shiver runs through her. "But Icansay that every boyfriend I ever had didn't try anything beyond . . . basic stuff. Ever." My jaw clenches. "And if we were dating for longer than a few months, as soon as I pushed for more—" My hand tightens in her hair just thinking about other men—boys—with her. "—they either ghosted or dumped me." She laughs again, but to herself, like she just figured something out. "You know, I had this friend. We were close, but we met right after I moved out of my dad's house. I am just now wondering if she has some kind of connection to him, too. If I ever tried to hook up with some random guy . . . she was always there."
"A random guy like me?" I ask, my heart pounding in an unfamiliar way.
"I know it sounds insane." She laughs. "I know it sounds very . . . conspiracy theory-ish. But he has power, and he wants to keep it. A lot of things about our home and our family came to light recently, and it has me questioning everything."
"It doesn't sound insane. People in power . . . like to keep it by any means." She hums in agreement but leaves it at that, basic and simple.
Minutes pass, and I watch her hair sift through my fingers. Long minutes where I think she may have fallen asleep, except for that little finger drawing on my skin.
"Is it . . . a turn-off? Knowing I have no . . . experience?" she asks, and I nearly laugh in her face.
A part of me knows that would be the absolute worst response ever, though.
My entire life, I haven't had much that was mine and mine alone. With an older brother, most of my things were handed down. I've always been second best, the last, second thought.
Every achievement, every accomplishment—someone else took at least part of the credit or some kind of ownership whether I wanted that or not. Even my home, despite me being the one to finally pay it down to nothing, despite it being in my name, is the family complex, notmine.
Unless I buy it or earn it myself, nothing is mine and mine alone.
Surely nothing given to me has been mine.
Except, maybe this woman lying in bed with me.
Despite her having zero understanding of how big this is, and how big we will be, she is mine.
"Not even close, fiorella," I say, moving my hand in her hair until her head tips up to look at me. "Never. I'm honored. Honored to have that privilege."
"It wasn't that bi—"
"Don't. It was. Maybe not for you, but for me." Her eyes go wide, and I smile. "Yeah. So don't take away from it. You're mine now. Yes?" It takes a bit, her staring in my eyes while I try to make her understand. To make her see what this means. Whatwenow mean.
"Yeah, Dante," she says with a small smile. I press my lips to her forehead.
But I know right then, she doesn't get it.
She's saying what I want to hear.
Something tells me that's an old habit of hers, one she needs to drop.
But still, she doesn't get that she's mine.
But she will.
Soon.
Fifteen
From Libby Turner’s journals, written seven years before Lilah was born
Dear Diary,
I saw him again tonight. Arturo. Even his name makes me smile. He was at one of the fundraisers my father dragged me to, his father there with the same intentions as mine. To make connections, to bypass some unseen middleman.
He took me to the kitchen, and we stole a box of cookies, and he brought me to the top of the building, and we ate them. We watched the clouds move and talked for hours. He’s like me; he wants more. He hates the wheeling and dealing, hates how it hurts people.
