Chapter 103 Mi Wantem Diswan!
“Mi really tired,” Leitana muttered, wrapping her arms tightly around Ravial’s neck. Her head dropped heavily onto his shoulder as he carried her bridal-style toward the waiting Maybach. Her bare feet dangled lazily, the killer heels clutched in his free hand.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Ravial murmured, dipping his head to brush a feather-soft kiss against her forehead.
She let out a long, dramatic sigh.
“And mi fut… these heels too much. But mi see Willow and all the other models walking in even taller ones. Even Lafu and Stacy move like dem born inside heels. Yet here I am, whining like small pikin.”
Ravial’s gaze slid down to her feet, pink, a little swollen from the unaccustomed torture then to the black stilettos swinging from his fingers.
“You’re not them,” he said simply, voice low and steady. “And you’re not used to it.”
She nodded against his neck, nuzzling closer, then suddenly stiffened.
Her eyes widened, sparkling. “Wow, Ravial, luk!”
He followed her gaze.
At the edge of the parking lot sat a small, brightly painted ice-cream kiosk, its hand-painted sign proudly declaring “Sweet Freeze Ice Cream.” A cheerful striped umbrella fluttered above, and a teenage vendor was scooping from gleaming metal tubs. The chalkboard glowed with neon promises: coconut, soursop, mango, passionfruit swirl.
Leitana wriggled in his arms like an excited child who’d just spotted Christmas.
“Let's go dere!”
Ravial had just reached the open car door, the driver standing at crisp attention. He paused, one brow arching beneath the blindfold.
“You want ice cream,” he stated, not quite asking.
“Yes yes! Aeskrim!” Her curls bounced wildly as she nodded. “Back in Vanuatu, for de orphanage, we no really get proper ice cream like dis. Sister Mary only make frozen coconut milk in small cups when mango plenty, dem call it ‘snow coconut.’ Only on special days, like Christmas or when big donor show face. Mi used to dream of real shop ice cream, one wey get colors and sprinkles. Mi never taste am proper until mi come here.”
Ravial glanced at the humble kiosk, plastic stools, handwritten prices, the vendor’s easy smile then back at her shining, hopeful eyes.
“There’s a place on Madison Avenue,” he said evenly. “Thirty-seven flavors. Imported straight from Italy.”
Leitana shook her head so fast her curls whipped his cheek.“No no no! diswan will be sweeter! Look at the mango color, so bright! And the man is smiling like he’s happy to see me. Mi wantem diswan!”
Before he could argue, she was wriggling determinedly.
“Leitana…” Ravial warned, tightening his hold.
But her bare feet already slapped the ground as she slid free.
“Mi coming!” she called over her shoulder, half-running, half-stumbling toward the kiosk in pure glee.
Ravial’s brows shot up. The driver coughed politely and suddenly found the sky very interesting.
For one stunned second, Ravial just stared after his barefoot wife darting across the lot.
Then he sighed, that long-suffering sigh of a man who knew he’d already lost.
He handed the heels to the driver. “Hold these.” Hands in pockets, exuding quiet menace to anyone foolish enough to stare too long, he followed at a measured pace.
Leitana reached the kiosk breathless and beaming.
“Hi! Good afternoon, sir!” she greeted the young vendor in his bright orange apron. “Mi wan try… um… de coconut one, and de mango swirl. Wid sprinkles if you get!”
The vendor blinked—first at her radiant smile, then at the towering, blindfolded figure approaching behind her like a storm wrapped in bespoke tailoring.
“Uh… sure, ma’am. Small or large?”
“Small, plis,” Leitana said sweetly. “Mi no wan waste.”
Ravial arrived just as the vendor started scooping. He said nothing. Just stood there radiating killer energy.
Leitana glanced up at him, eyes dancing. “Yu wan taste?” she asked innocently, holding up the coconut cone the second it was handed over.
Ravial stared down at the dripping cone, then at her hopeful, upturned face.
A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“No, I’m fine.”
Her face fell, just for a second.
Then he sighed again, deeper this time.
“Fine.”
He leaned down.
Leitana’s smile blazed brighter than the sun. She lifted the cone to his lips like an offering.
He took one small, reluctant bite.
She watched him intently, barely breathing.
“Well?” she whispered, bouncing lightly on her bare toes.
Ravial chewed slowly… then gave the tiniest nod.
“Not bad,” he muttered.
Leitana squealed, nearly dropping her own cone in excitement. “See! Mi tell you dis one sweeter!”
She spun to the vendor. “Give us two more, mi husband will pay.”
The young man swallowed hard, eyes flicking nervously up to Ravial before darting away.
Ravial turned, gave one sharp glance toward the car. The driver already knew—he hurried over with the stack of bills.
Ravial peeled off several crisp hundreds without counting and pressed them into the vendor’s shaking hand.
Leitana leaned in quickly, beaming. “Keep de change, sir. You do good job with dis ice cream. Tank you plenty!”
The vendor stammered, bowing so fast his apron strings danced. “Th-thank you, ma’am… sir…”
Leitana collected the second cone, mango swirl piled high with extra sprinkles and held it up to Ravial like a trophy. “For yu.”
He stared at it for a long beat, then accepted it carefully, like it might explode.
She slipped her sticky fingers into his free hand and tugged him gently toward the car.
They walked slowly, her barefoot and glowing, him in his perfect suit holding a mango cone like it had personally insulted him.
Leitana took a huge lick of her coconut cone, eyes fluttering closed in bliss.
“Ouuu, so sweet,” she sighed, the words slipping into soft French. “C’est tellement doux…”
Ravial’s steps hitched, just once.
He glanced down at her, blindfold hiding his eyes, but the tilt of his head said everything.
Then, in perfect, low French, smooth, only faintly touched by centuries of disuse, he murmured:
“Tu vas me tuer un jour, mon agneau.” (“You’re going to kill me one day, my lamb.”)
Leitana froze mid-lick.
Her eyes went huge. The cone hovered forgotten near her lips.
She turned slowly to stare up at him.
“Yu… yu speak French?” she whispered, voice tiny and stunned.
Ravial’s mouth curved just the smallest, most dangerous smirk.
“Among others,” he replied in English, but the French still hummed between them.
Leitana’s cheeks flushed warm pink.
She stared another second, then looked down at her cone, suddenly shy.
“Mi… mi no know you speak French,” she mumbled. “Yu never tell me.”
Ravial took one careful bite of his mango swirl, still holding it like it might fight back then offered it to her lips.
“Open.”
She obeyed automatically, taking the tiniest bite, eyes still locked on his face in wonder.
He leaned closer, voice dropping to that velvet rumble meant only for her.
“I speak whatever language you dream in, little lamb.”
Her heart skipped, she felt it. He wasn’t just talking about words. What he truly meant was that he was was fluent in her.
She swallowed the mango sweetness, then whispered back in hesitant, adorable French:
“Tu es… trop.”(“You are… too much.”)
Ravial’s smirk deepened into something softer, almost vulnerable.
He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her temple.
“Et tu es tout.” (“And you are everything.”)
Leitana made a tiny, overwhelmed sound, half squeak, half sigh and buried her face in his chest, ice cream forgotten, sticky fingers clutching his pristine shirt like he was the only solid thing in her suddenly spinning world.
Ravial simply held her tighter, the melting cone still in his other hand.
The driver discreetly looked away.
And the devil walked his barefoot lamb to the car, ice cream in one hand, her heart in the other knowing full well he’d already lost the war.
And loving every second of surrender.