He steps closer behind me, his breath warm against my neck. “I had a feeling you’d appreciate it,” he murmurs, his voice reverent yet possessive, like he’s unveiling a secret meant only for me.
He steps closer, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. “I built this for you,” he whispers, his voice a low rumble that resonates through me. “Every shelf, every stone, every inch of it… for you.”
I turn to look at him, my eyes wide. “You built this?”
He nods, his gaze intense. “When I first saw you, tucked away in the corner of that little bookstore, lost in a story… you didn’t even notice me. You had no idea that I’d already decided you were mine.” His fingers trace slowly along my collarbone, sending warmth through my body. “I watched you… how you’d get so absorbed, the way your lips would twitch when you read something funny, how your brows furrowed with every twist. I wanted to give you a place where you could lose yourself completely.”
He pulls me even closer, his eyes dark as they hold mine. “You deserve more than a dim bookstore corner, Dove. Here, you can read in silence, with no one watching… except me.”
The heat of his words, the possessiveness woven through them, both thrills and unnerves me. There’s no denying the careful thought he put into this—his eyes search mine, waiting,watching for any trace of surrender. And yet, in this room he built for me, he’s left me surrounded by beauty and history, by a kind of intimacy that feels as unsettling as it is seductive.
I feel his fingers trail down my arm, gentle but insistent, and his grip tightens, grounding me in his presence. “You see,” he murmurs, his voice a warm breath against my ear, “I wanted to create a place where you wouldn’t want to leave… where every part of you felt like it belonged to me. Here, you’re surrounded by everything that makes you feel safe, makes you feel seen. Every page, every shelf, is a part of you—and now a part of me.”
He reaches up, and with a brush of his fingertips, he turns my chin to face the shelves. “Look around,” he says softly, the barest hint of pride in his voice. “This library is endless. You could spend days here, weeks, and still not uncover every story, every hidden secret. Each book, each word, is here for you.”
My breath catches as I take it all in—the rich smell of old pages, the faint aroma of polished wood, and the feel of his body behind mine, a constant reminder of his silent claim on me. His hands slide over my shoulders, a tender yet possessive touch that speaks louder than any words he could say.
“You wanted me to have this…” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He turns me slowly, his gaze dark and unwavering. “I want you to need this. To need me,” he says, and there’s a dangerous edge to his words, something raw and possessive that seizes hold of me, pulling me under. “In this room, you’re mine entirely. Not just to keep, but to protect, to surround with everything you’ve ever wanted but never dared to ask for.”
His hands trace down my arms, his fingers lacing through mine, his touch both possessive and reassuring. “So stay here, Dove. Find yourself in these pages. Just know that I’ll be here… waiting for you to come back to me.”
As his words settle over me, I realize that he’s crafted more than just a library; he’s given me a world where I can lose myself, a place I never want to leave… even if I could.
The library stretches before me, a labyrinth of rich mahogany and shadows, each shelf bursting with leather-bound volumes, their spines glinting faintly in the warm, amber light spilling from the chandelier above. The room feels alive, as if each book holds its own heartbeat, its own story waiting to be shared. There’s an old-world elegance here, a touch of magic. I feel like I’ve stepped into a place that time itself has forgotten.
I trail my fingers along the edge of a shelf, feeling the smooth, polished wood beneath my fingertips, breathing in the faint, intoxicating scent of old paper and leather—a smell that feels oddly familiar, comforting. I can feel Ashton’s gaze on me from across the room, intense and unyielding, but I can’t bring myself to look back at him just yet. Not here. Not now. This space feels too intimate, too close to something I can’t quite define.
Ahead of me, the shelves climb to impossible heights, a rolling ladder tucked beside them as if waiting for me to glide along, plucking novels and histories and mysteries from places I can barely reach. I’ve only seen libraries like this in books—vast, sprawling rooms filled with knowledge and secrets. It’s overwhelming and beautiful, as if I’ve stepped into a dream.
I notice a small reading nook by the window, and it draws me in. The window is a massive stained glass creation, casting fractured light in shades of deep violet, emerald green, and burnished gold onto the plush armchair and ottoman nestled there. Sunlight filters through, painting the room in muted, shifting colors, as though the whole space has been bathed in watercolor. I reach out, grazing my hand along the armrest ofthe chair, the fabric soft and worn in just the right way, inviting me to sit and lose myself here.
On the coffee table, a collection of books awaits me—dark poetry, ancient myths, a leather-bound journal with pages that look well-loved. I hesitate before picking up the journal, feeling almost like an intruder in this carefully arranged space, like it’s a scene meant to be admired from afar. But curiosity wins. The journal is heavy in my hands, its spine creaking as I open it. Ink sketches fill the pages—constellations I don’t recognize, twisting vines, a dark forest shrouded in mist. The drawings are haunting and beautiful, and there’s something familiar about the way they’re arranged, like he knew exactly what would captivate me.
I can’t help but glance over my shoulder, catching Ashton’s eyes as he watches me. There’s a quiet intensity there, something guarded but raw. I want to ask him why—why he did this, why he thought to make something so perfect for me. But the words get caught in my throat, lost somewhere between awe and uncertainty.
I turn back, letting my hand fall from the journal as I move slowly through the aisles, drawn to random books, each spine a potential secret, each page a potential story. I pull a few from the shelves, feeling the weight of their age, their importance, even though I haven’t opened them yet. My fingertips drift over the titles, feeling the raised embossing, like I could absorb their words through touch alone.
Everywhere I look, every corner I turn, there’s something waiting to be discovered—a map of constellations, an ancient text in a language I can’t decipher, a faded photograph tucked between pages. It’s overwhelming, but in a way that’s achingly beautiful. This isn’t just a library. It’s a world built just for me, as if he’s somehow pieced together everything he’s seen in me and carved it into this place.
I pause, running my hand along a volume of poetry, its leather cover soft under my touch. There’s a weight in the room, a sense of something unspoken that fills the air between us, lingering with every step I take. It’s his presence, watching me, waiting. And as I breathe in the scents, touch the books, feel the pulse of this place, I realize this isn’t just a gift.
It’s an offering, and I’m more captivated by it than I’m willing to admit.
I feel his presence behind me before I hear him, the soft creak of the wooden floorboards, the slow, measured rhythm of his footsteps. He’s not moving toward me yet, just watching, letting me feel the weight of his gaze as I explore his creation. I press my hand against the spine of an old book, steadying myself, trying to absorb the overwhelming sensation of being surrounded by something that feels so achingly personal, so… me.
I turn back to face him, my fingers lingering on the book as I look at him, and he’s closer now, his eyes unreadable but intense. The shadows play over his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the darkness in his gaze. There’s a flicker of satisfaction there, a hint of possessiveness, like he’s savoring my every reaction.
“Why did you do this?” The words slip out before I can stop them, softer than I intended, almost fragile in the heavy quiet of the library.
He doesn’t answer right away, just steps forward until he’s standing close enough that I can feel his warmth. He reaches out, his hand hovering over my own on the book, but he doesn’t touch me, not yet. He just lets his fingers drift near mine, close enough that the tension pulls tight between us, like the room itself is holding its breath.
“You never noticed me watching you,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “In thatlittle bookstore across town, curled up in a corner, reading as if the world outside didn’t exist.” His eyes flicker, and there’s a raw honesty there that makes my chest tighten. “I’d see you there, lost in your own world, and I knew… I knew I had to give you a place you wouldn’t want to leave.”
My breath catches, and I feel myself leaning into his words, into the warmth of his voice. He tilts his head, watching me, his gaze drifting over my face, as though memorizing every reaction, every flicker of emotion. There’s a gentleness in his expression that feels out of place, unexpected, and I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks, like he’s exposed something inside me I didn’t even know was there.
He finally touches me, his fingers grazing the back of my hand, the warmth of his skin searing into me. It’s a gentle touch, but it feels possessive, as if he’s marking me somehow, claiming me without a single word. My pulse races, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the surrounding space, the quiet intimacy of the library, the way his touch makes everything else disappear.
