Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow slightly. “Inspiration?” he repeats. “No. It’s a reminder.”
My heartbeat stutters. I hate that I hear the edge in that sentence. I hate that I know who he’s aiming it at.
I lift my chin. “You’re implying I’m Catherine.”
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, and his mouth curves again, but this time, it’s wicked. “You’re not Catherine.”
I bristle. “Oh? Thank you for the character assessment.”
His eyes flick to my mouth and linger for a fraction too long. “You married me after all.”
My stomach drops.
“Yet you still consider yourself Heathcliff,” I say, voice sharper than necessary. “Brooding. Unhinged. Ruined by love. Out for revenge.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is low, dangerous, amused in the way a predator is amused by prey that tries to bite.
He rises from the chair with slow grace, crossing the room toward me.
“I might have been ruined by love.” He’s close enough that I can smell him. “But I also think I’m improved by it.”
I swallow hard. “That’s the most horrifying sentence you’ve ever said to me, and you literally threatened to cage me.”
His eyes glitter. “The cage is a metaphor.”
“Not in my experience,” I deadpan.
He leans slightly closer, and I can feel the heat of him without him touching me. The space between us is as thin as paper.
“Are you enjoying my library?” he asks, making my head spin from the change of subject.
I blink, thrown. “Am I . . . what?”
He gestures toward the book in my hands, then toward the shelves around us. “You’ve been in here more than once.”
My fingers tighten instinctively. “I’m allowed to be in here.”
“You’re allowed to be wherever I decide you’re allowed.”
The cruelty is back, and let’s not forget the control.
My anger flares hot enough to burn through the softness his earlier admission created.
I lift my chin and force my voice steady. “Then why are you here?”
His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows. Then his expression smooths, and his mouth curves. “Because you took my book.”
I scoff, but the sound comes out too thin. “I didn’t take it. I touched it.”
“Yet you’re still holding it.”
My chest tightens, and I hate that he notices everything.
I try to cut the moment with sarcasm. “It’s rare to find a first edition that isn’t locked behind glass. I’m appreciating it.”
“Appreciating,” he repeats, voice low. “It’s a pretty fucked-up book if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask.”
His eyes lift to mine, sharp. “No, you didn’t.”
The air between us feels charged. My pulse bangs against my throat like a warning.
I hate that my voice softens anyway. “Why do you read it so much?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’ll snap. Mock. Deflect. Turn it into something vile. Instead, he exhales slowly.
“Because it touches on something most don’t get.”
My breath catches. “What don’t most people get?”
Lorenzo’s lips tip up, but there’s no humor in the way they move. Instead, it feels bitter. Broken. “Wanting someone, and realizing wanting isn’t the same as being wanted back.”
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I stare at him, stunned by the honesty. By the fact that it’s slipping out of him. I don’t know what to do with it. So I do what I always do . . . I go for the throat.
“You’re not a victim,” I whisper, forcing steel into my voice. “Don’t talk like you are.”
His gaze hardens. All the softness is gone instantly, replaced by something cold and lethal.
“Victim?” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. “No, Little Bird. I’m the consequence.”
My stomach flips. I tighten my grip on the book like I can anchor myself with paper and ink.
“What happened to you?”
Lorenzo’s mouth curves into a smile that is all teeth and darkness. “Now that’s a story for a different day.”
“I don’t want to hear any of it,” I fire back. “All that matters is that you’re not the boy who used to—”
“Don’t,” he cuts in, voice sharp as glass. His fingers lift again, hovering near my jaw, then curling into a fist at the last second like he’s strangling the impulse. “Don’t talk about him. He was weak.”
My breath stutters.
He takes a step back, just barely, giving me air again.
“Have you read it recently?” he asks, voice low.
I blink, thrown by the reversal. “Yes.”
His eyes flick up. “How recently?”
My mouth twists. “Once a year.”
He leans back against the shelf behind him, one shoulder resting against the wood as if he belongs there. “At least you have insight into why you’re here.”
My pulse spikes, but I force my voice steady. “I don’t need to read a book to know that you brought me here to punish me.”
Lorenzo’s jaw flexes. “That’s what you think this is?”
“What else would it be?” I whisper, my throat tight, my hands shaking.
His eyes hold mine, and something in them looks almost tired. His obsession costs him a part of himself.