Page 159 of Ghost Ribbon

“I’ll feed him,” he said, his hand closing around the bowl, and I grabbed it back.

“I’ll feed him,” I argued, and Rei glared at me, then scoffed.

But he let it go.

I sat beside Marco on the couch and I blew on the soup, then I lifted the spoon to his mouth. “Is it good?”

He nodded. “It is. Did you make it?”

Rei spoke before I could. “I made it. He was useless.”

I was seriously debating going over there and zipping his mouth closed, but then I heard Marco chuckle.

The sound was weak but so cute it immediately grabbed my attention. He reached out and his hand found my head. His fingers slid through my hair. “Thank you both.”

Rei smiled at him while I fed him slowly, forgetting all about my irritation with that flower boy. My entire attention was fully on my little star.

After Marco ate, they both left.

Rei and Luca kissed his cheeks and I felt the aggression in me rise so violently. I was really jealous, like abnormally fucking jealous. I envisioned taking their heads off their shoulders, but I’d never do that. Maybe months ago I would have, but not now.

I promised myself that I would not hurt the people he loved, that I would not let my all-encompassing possessiveness cause him pain.

When we were alone, Marco turned to me and hugged me. The top of his head fit under my chin. “Thank you.” His voice was muffled against my shirt.

I rested my hand on his head. “For what?”

“For being nice to them.”

I looked down at the top of his head. “I wasn’t nice.” I was barely civil if you ask me.

“You were.” He tilted his head up and got on his tiptoes, then kissed my head. “Do you want to take a bath with me?” He giggled.

I smiled.

I smiled so much when I was around him, especially when he was happy. It was my favourite thing in the world and my body naturally mimicked his joy. “I won’t say no to that.”

Marco’s giggle widened into a smile.

Chapter 37 - Marco

I was in the bathtub.

The water was warm and it soothed the ache in my joints, which hurt a lot lately. Alexei was behind me, his chest against my back. His legs were on either side of mine, his arms resting loosely around my waist, his chin hooked over my shoulder.

He was playing with my hands.

My fingers, to be specific. His own fingers were tracing the lines of my palm. They paused at the scar on my knuckle - the one from when I was twelve and fell off a bike I shouldn’t have been riding. They continued, tracing the line of my thumb, circling the wrist where the IV had been, lingering at the place where the bruise was fading from yellow to green to nothing.

“Tell me about that night.”

“What do you mean?”

“When we met in Italy,” I clarified. “Tell me about it.”

I hadn’t had the chance to properly ask him about it, but I was curious. Although I could remember a thing or two, mostly from the dreams I had about a boy with green eyes, I thought they were my imagination. But I know now that it’s mostly a memory engraved in my mind which I can only reach when I dream.

“It was when I was ten. I went there with my father,” he continued. “I was brought along because my father was beginning to see uses for me.” His fingers continued tracing my palm. “I snuck out one night. I couldn’t sleep and I was pretty bored. I just wanted to go back home.”