Page 34 of Lupo

"Goodnight, Isabella."

She leaves then, walking back across the yard to the house. I watch until she's safely inside, until the door is locked behind her, until the lights go off one by one.

Then I sit back down with my back to the wall, and I keep watch.

Because that's what I do now.

That's who I am.

Not Lupo, the name a child gave me.

Not whoever I was before, lost in the fog of amnesia.

I'm the man who stands between Isabella and the world that wants to hurt her.

And God help anyone who tries to get past me.

Chapter 12: Isabella

Three days since the kiss.

Three days of careful distance. Of him staying in the barn except for his nightly shower. Of me finding excuses not to be in the kitchen when he comes in. Of stolen glances across the yard that we both pretend aren't happening.

Three days of lying awake at night remembering the way his hands felt in my hair, the taste of him, the sound I made that I can't stop being embarrassed about.

Three days of telling myself it can't happen again.

But I can't stop thinking about him.

I'm chopping onions for lunch when I make the decision. It's impulsive, probably stupid, definitely expensive. But I don't care.

I'm going to make him the red pasta.

The pasta he remembered. The one small piece of his past that came back to him. I'm going to recreate it, even if I have to guess at the recipe. Even if it means going back to the market and spending money I don't have.

For a moment, I question why I’m going to all this trouble for him.

But I already know.

Because he's been working himself to exhaustion fixing my farm, and has promised to protect us. And because three nights ago he kissed me like I was something precious, and when I pulled away, he understood.

"Elena," I call. "Get your shoes. We're going to the village."

"Again?" She bounces into the kitchen. "Can we see the baby chickens this time?"

“We'll see."

The drive to the market feels less terrifying in daylight, though I'm still scanning every car, every face. But I need tomatoes, garlic, fresh basil if they have it. Maybe some decent pasta, not the cheap stuff I usually buy.

The market is quieter today, fewer vendors. I don't see any strange men in expensive suits, and the relief is overwhelming. I move quickly through the stalls, gathering what I need.

Signora Russo raises her eyebrows when she sees my purchases. "Having a feast, dear?"

"Just... making something special." I can feel myself blushing.

She gives me a knowing look but doesn't comment. She adds an extra tomato to my bag with a wink.

On the drive home, I'm already planning the recipe in my head. I've made tomato sauce before, but this needs to be better. Special. I'll slow-cook it, add wine if I have any left, and fresh herbs from the garden.