“Know what?” she snapped, her voice trembling. “That you’d trap me with sweet words, only to leave me broken? I won’t risk it.”
Celine was curled up in a worn leather armchair in the dimly lit library of Wylds Estate, her fingers gripping the leather cover ofA Stolen Glance, one of the scandalous romance novels Rhys had bought her, as she eagerly drank in every word on the page.
The room smelled of dust and old paper, the shelves sagging under neglected tomes, their gilt titles faded. A single candle flickered on the table beside her, casting shadows over her blue muslin dress, her black hair loose and tumbling over her shoulders, free of her bonnet.
Her stomach growled, a handful of crumbling scones on a chipped plate her only sustenance, the crumbs scattered across her lap.
It was all her husband’s fault, she thought, her blue eyes narrowing on the book. If Rhys hadn’t left those cursed novels in her path, if she hadn’t been bored out of her wits during their so-called honeymoon, she’d never have touched the thing.
She had missed dinner, so engrossed in the story’s infuriating characters—a lord and lady blind to their hearts, fighting over pride and fear—that she’d forgotten to eat until hunger drove her to raid the kitchen.
“Ridiculous,” she muttered, flipping a page, her cheeks flushed from the heated passage.
She scoffed, before popping a scone into her mouth, the dry pastry sticking to her throat.
Why can’t they see it?
She was exasperated, their self-sabotage grating on her nerves, their unspoken love a tangle of missed chances.
“What is?” a deep voice asked, warm and tired.
Celine’s head snapped up, her heart lurching when she saw Rhys standing in the doorway, his navy blue coat wrinkled, his dark hair disheveled, his amber eyes glinting in the candlelight.
He looked exhausted, the weight of his duties etched in the lines of his face. Yet his gaze was warm, comfortable, like a fire she hadn’t realized she had missed.
Her blush deepened, the book a guilty weight in her hands, her embarrassment spiking at being caught red-handed with the romance novel she had sworn to ignore.
She wanted to hide it, to deflect with her usual fire, but his presence—unguarded, familiar—stirred a warmth she couldn’t deny, her attraction to him a spark she fought to smother.
“Nothing,” she said, her voice softer than intended. Her fingers tightened on the book, and her eyes darted to the crumbs on her lap. “Just… this book. The characters are infuriating.”
Her admission was hesitant, her resolve to keep their marriage on paper clashing with the pull of his gaze.
Rhys stepped into the room, his boots scuffing the faded rug, his smile faint but genuine. He leaned against a shelf, his exhaustion evident in his slouched posture.
“Infuriating, are they?” he asked softly, his eyes holding hers. “Tell me about them.”
His invitation was simple, his warmth disarming, and Celine felt a pang. She had missed this—their interactions, his ability to ignite her fire, even if it terrified her.
She swallowed, her blush fading, her fingers tracing the book cover. “They’re… blind,” she began, her voice steadier, her frustration with the characters spilling out. “The lord and lady—they fight, push each other away, all because they’re too stubborn to see that they’re in love. They sabotage themselves over and over, and it’s… maddening.”
Rhys’s brow arched, his smile softening. “Sounds familiar,” he said, almost to himself. But he didn’t press, didn’t tease her, his restraint surprising her. “What do they fight about?”
His question was curious, his gaze steady, as if he saw more than she meant to reveal.
Her heart raced, her fingers trembling on the book, her mind flashing to their conversation in the carriage—her bleak view of love, his echoed pain.
She had wanted to tell him about her mother, how her death had shattered her father, leaving her terrified of love, terrified of consummating their marriage and losing herself in him.
But his words—love and marriage are destined to cause pain—rang in her ears, a reminder that he saw her as a wife of convenience, nothing more.
Why do I feel this way?
Her attraction to him felt foolish, a betrayal of her resolve. She then decided to exist, to treat him as a friend, to keep her heart guarded.
“They fight about… trust,” she said, setting the book down, crumbs falling from her lap. “He thinks she’s hiding something; she thinks he’s too proud. They’re too afraid to be honest.”
Her words hung, heavy with unintended truth, her eyes meeting his, her vulnerability slipping through.
