But not this time.Not with her.
Belle.
Her voice lingered in the halls long after she’d gone, humming carols under her breath like she owned the air in this house.Her smile flashed uninvited whenever I closed my eyes.Even the smell of dust and paper seemed different since she’d started touching my books, moving through my shadows like they were hers to claim.
And damn me, I hated it.
The sky outside had turned heavy and gray by the afternoon, snow tumbling fast, the kind of storm that swallowed roads whole.The wind rattled the old windows, whistling through cracks I’d never bothered to seal.The house shuddered with every gust, and I muttered under my breath, tugging the curtains tighter.
She’d leave early today.She had to.No one in their right mind trudged through a blizzard just to shuffle books in a library that wasn’t theirs.She’d pack up her neat little notebook, tuck her scarf around her neck, and scurry back home where it was warm, where people waited for her.
That was what I told myself.Over and over, like a mantra.
She had no business being here in the first place.
And yet, my ears strained for the sound of her humming.My eyes flicked to the library door more than once, half-expecting her to push it open with that stubborn little smile, cheeks pink from the cold.I cursed myself for it, gripping the arms of my chair until the wood groaned.
Why did it matter?If the storm chased her off, good.That was what I wanted, wasn’t it?One less ray of sunshine slicing through the dark I’d worked so hard to build.
Still, the thought of her leaving before she was ready clawed at me in ways I didn’t care to name.
I stood, pacing to the window, watching the snow whip across the hill, erasing everything in its path.The world out there was brutal, unforgiving.She didn’t belong in it—not trudging through to get here, and sure as hell not inside this house.
I told myself she’d be gone soon.She’d come to her senses.
But deep down, where the truth liked to fester, I knew better.
Belle wasn’t built like the rest of them.She wouldn’t scare easy.And storm or no storm, I had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going anywhere.
Just when I thought I’d finally get some peace, there she was.
The door creaked open, a blast of cold air sweeping in with her, and Belle stood on the threshold knocking snow off her boots.Her cheeks were flushed pink from the wind, her scarf dusted with white like she’d wrestled the storm itself just to get here.
I growled, the words tearing out before I could stop them.“Storm’s coming.You shouldn’t be here.”
Any sensible person would’ve taken the hint.Hell, any sensible person wouldn’t have shown up at all.
But Belle?
She just breezed right past me like the growl hadn’t even touched her.She unwound her scarf, snowflakes scattering onto the floor, and tossed me a smile over her shoulder.
“The books aren’t going to sort themselves,” she said, stubborn as ever, her voice warm despite the chill clinging to her clothes.
I clenched my jaw, watching her march straight for the library like she owned the place.
Inside, I was torn in two.Part of me wanted to slam the door shut behind her, bark at her until she finally got the message and left me alone in my shadows.That was how it was supposed to work—growl, glare, silence.People scattered.End of story.
But another part of me… damn it, I couldn’t ignore it.There was grit in her, a kind of fire I hadn’t seen in a long time.She wasn’t here for pity, wasn’t here to gawk at scars or whisper about monsters.She was here to work, storm or no storm.And I hated how much I admired that.
Frustration boiled under my skin.Why wouldn’t she scare off like the rest?Why wouldn’t she just let me keep my solitude?
Instead, she filled the house with her stubborn cheer, and I was left standing there, torn between pushing her out and secretly grateful she refused to go.
She disappeared into the library like it was the most natural thing in the world, shedding her coat and scarf and diving straight into the stacks.I stood in the hall for a long moment, listening to the sound of her humming as she shifted books around, the scrape of leather spines against wood, the scratch of her pen against paper.She worked like the storm outside didn’t exist, like nothing could touch her once she was surrounded by those shelves.
I turned toward the window, frowning.The snow was falling harder now, thick flakes whipping sideways in the wind.The world beyond the glass was vanishing, hill and trees swallowed in white.The old windows rattled in their frames, and I cursed under my breath.This wasn’t just a passing squall—it was turning ugly, fast.
She should’ve stayed home.Any fool could see that.She had no business trudging through a storm to paw through my ghosts.But there she was, in my library, scribbling notes, humming some carol like the weather wasn’t gnawing at the house itself.
