Chapter 109- cherishing

Lucca pov

The next day, I woke up, and it was already noon. Vincent had left not too long ago; his side of the bed still held warmth.

There was a prepared lunch on the dining table.

It had gotten a bit cold.

As I ate, tears suddenly welled up in my eyes. My foster parents had heavy workloads and didn't have the time to prepare food for me every day, so they often made it in the morning for me to reheat at lunch and dinner.

They were both laborers.

Their time at home was limited, and they didn't engage in conversations about emotions or aspirations with me.

At most, they would come home and ask if I had eaten or if I had done my reading. I felt more comfortable taking part-time jobs outside than staying at home.

But now, as I sat at the dining table, I thought carefully.

In reality, I had been well taken care of as I grew up.

My health wasn't good, and I had never done heavy chores at home. I didn't have to cook, wash, or clean. I didn't even have to fold my own blankets. Even though the space at home was limited, my foster father still got me a bookshelf.

Whenever I said, "I'm going to read," my parents would put aside whatever they were doing and keep quiet to avoid disturbing me.

Even with a deliberate purpose in raising me, I had grown up successfully.

I had always been grateful.

Until the day I was escorted to the foster slave camp.

My parents stood by the door like two steel pillars, unmoved no matter how I begged and screamed for help.

I remembered hearing them talk about how much money they had lost just two nights ago, and that's when I finally realized I hadn't grown up as their "child."

I was an investment.

Upon hearing the news of my parents' death, my first thought was, "I no longer have to decide whether to love or hate them."

I could start "cherishing" them now, and cherishing didn't require distinguishing between love and hate. But today, as I sat at the dining table, I cried again, much to my own dismay.

"Lucca?" Vincent's voice came from nearby.

I finally managed to peel myself away from my thoughts. Vincent had changed into an indigo trench coat, his long hair loosely tied back with a lengthy golden-blue ribbon.

Brown leather boots remained outside. His platinum cane and my umbrella were placed in a bucket, and his hat hung on the head of the cane since there was no coat rack by the door.

Vincent walked in, confirming that I was indeed crying.

"Is it that bad?" He casually picked up my fork and tasted a piece of beef.

I quickly adjusted my expression.

"It's just the pepper," I said.

Vincent nodded and tasted a piece of lettuce.

"This isn't something you cooked, is it?" I asked.

"Of course not..." Vincent glanced at me, "It was made by the bodyguards. But if you want, I can give it a try."

I thought Vincent would be quite averse to the kitchen.

Because in Ireland, he never helped Luna Nataly with cooking.

But later he mentioned that he simply didn't like his mother's nitpicking and finger-pointing. Many lycans were fond of cooking.

The Sky Garden restaurant, for instance, was run by lycans.

The owner created new dishes himself and then taught them to the head chef. Luna Nataly was also skilled in various cuisines, particularly excelling in soups. But they considered it more of a "hobby" than a necessary survival skill.

I felt like Vincent would blow up the kitchen.

"I can bake cakes too," Vincent said sternly, "Don't look at me like that."

I remained non-committal and asked, "I thought you had already left."

"I just went to change clothes," Vincent frowned, "Do you need me to stay with you for a few more days? I can postpone some things..."

"No need," I replied, pursing my lips.

Vincent watched me finish my meal and then returned to his room to read. Half an hour passed, and I hadn't turned a single page.

Vincent knew I was troubled, but I didn't want him to console me, so I put on a facade of normalcy. Even if I didn't say anything, he could sense it. Another half-hour passed, and I still hadn't turned a page.

Vincent finally grew impatient.

He put down the magazine he was reading, walked over to me, and then picked me up from the chair with one swift motion.

I let out a scream, "You can't scare me like that!"

My heart couldn't handle it. The person who had suddenly picked me up chuckled, "Did you think I didn't know you've been watching me through the mirror?"

I hesitated, "Your presence is too strong; I can't concentrate!"

"Well then, stop reading."

After all, I was reading to distract myself, so why not do something else together? Vincent took me behind the four-poster bed's curtains.

He was patient, preferring a soothing pace, and remained calm and firm in everything he did. He had always been able to control my reckless and ignorant attempts, but recently, he was less inclined to refuse me.

He understood that I needed an outlet.

As the vines twisted and turned, and the moonlight sank into the dark water.

I would think of the crown tattoo on the arm of the psychologist.

I also wanted elaborate and ornate things, layer by layer, to cover up the scars. Vincent was willing to help me with the tattoos.

They both regained their composure, and Vincent got up to fetch the book I hadn't finished reading. He was only wearing a robe, and his clothes were scattered all over the floor.

On the pure white shaggy carpet, that indigo trench coat looked like a spilled paint.

I saw the contours of his body in the light through the robe. Supple and elegant. Lycan-style paleness and delicacy, with small and precise movements, yet restrained.

I bent down to pick up his wolf pendant from the floor.

Vincent handed me the book.

"Give it back to me," he frowned.

The wolf pendant was made of pure silver, and the lifelike face on it was unforgettable. It seemed that the chain had been replaced compared to the pendant; it looked newer.

"Is this a family heirloom too?" I asked curiously.

Vincent tried to take the wolf pendant back, but I agilely evaded him.

"Yes," Vincent frowned, "So give it back to me."

I held my hand away, pondering, "This was worn by the previous lycan, so... you're not just afraid of the gods, but also your father."

"I'm not afraid," Vincent gritted his teeth.

He slammed the book on the bedside table and snatched the wolf pendant away, threatening, "I'll make sure you cry while biting on it sooner or later."

At least, that didn't happen tonight.