“For you,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “I would build a thousand libraries, carve every story you’ve ever loved into these walls. Because I want you to find yourself here. To feel safe here.”
He leans in, his breath warm against my ear, his words dark and dangerously tender. “Because you’re mine, Dove. Every thought, every desire… every piece of you.” His fingers tighten slightly over mine, the barest hint of pressure grounding me, anchoring me to him in a way that feels both terrifying and intoxicating.
The words linger in the air, thick with meaning, with promises he hasn’t even spoken yet. And as I stand there, surrounded by the stories, the knowledge, the pieces of a worldhe’s crafted just for me, I realize he isn’t asking me to accept him.
He’s claiming me, piece by piece.
I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his words, the intensity in his gaze. The room around us fades, the books and the soft glow of the lamp, the shelves that stretch up into shadows. It’s like he’s wrapped the library itself around me as a declaration, as if every carefully selected book and hidden nook whispers the same possessive promise.
I turn away from his stare, needing a moment to breathe, to steady myself. My fingers graze the spines of the books nearest to me, feeling the textures of leather and old cloth, the quiet strength in each one. I pull a worn, gold-edged volume from the shelf, letting the musty, familiar scent of paper and ink fill my senses. It’s comforting in its way, a small distraction from the intensity of the man at my back.
But he’s relentless, his presence pulsing like a heartbeat, always just close enough to make my skin tingle, to keep me tethered to him. I hear him step closer, and his hands gently land on my shoulders, his fingers trailing down my arms, sending a shiver through me. I close my eyes, clutching the book tighter, trying to focus on anything other than the heat of his touch.
“What are you thinking, Dove?” His voice is quiet, almost tender, but there’s an edge to it—a dangerous undercurrent that leaves me feeling both safe and utterly at his mercy.
I don’t know how to answer. My mind races, tangled with thoughts and feelings I can’t put into words. A part of me wants to resist, to pull away and put space between us, but another part—the part I barely recognize—wants to sink into this feeling, to give in to the strange, thrilling sensation of being wanted so completely.
When I don’t respond, he gently pulls thebook from my hands, setting it back on the shelf. His hands slide down, resting on my waist, pulling me into him. His breath is warm against the back of my neck, and I feel my pulse quicken, a mixture of anticipation and fear humming in my veins.
“Let me show you what it means to belong to me,” he murmurs, his voice a dark promise that both excites and terrifies me.
I shiver, caught in the pull of his words, the sensation of his hands tightening on my waist. “You made this for me,” I whisper, more to myself than to him, feeling the reality of it sink in. It’s overwhelming—the thought that someone would go to such lengths, would create something so beautiful, just to keep me close, to draw me in.
“Yes, Dove,” he breathes, his voice reverent, his lips grazing my ear in a way that makes my heart skip. “Because I want every part of you—the thoughts you keep locked away, the dreams you barely remember, even the fears you think you can hide. I want them all.”
He turns me around slowly, and I’m met with those intense, dark eyes, a depth of possessiveness that steals the breath from my lungs. He lifts a hand to my cheek, his thumb grazing along my skin with a gentleness that contrasts with the dark fire in his eyes.
“Because you’re mine,” he whispers, his voice rough and low, “and nothing will ever change that.”
20
DOVE
Ashton’s voice cuts through the quiet like silk brushing against skin, low and commanding, but with that edge of gentleness that always surprises me.
“Go on,” he says, his eyes soft, though his posture is anything but. “Find a book. Experience it. This world is yours now.”
I can only nod, still feeling the weight of his gaze as I step forward. The library surrounds me, vast and sprawling, with endless shelves that climb to ceilings painted in dusky murals, a masterpiece of swirling skies and mythical creatures that seem to come alive under the soft glow of golden chandeliers. Each brushstroke on the ceiling feels like a part of some ancient story, woven just for me, and it lures me further into the depths of the room.
Rows upon rows of leather-bound books line the mahogany shelves, their covers glinting in hues of gold, emerald, and midnight blue. I walk along them slowly, letting my fingers trail across the spines, feeling the gentle crackle of age beneath my touch. Some titles are in languages I don’t recognize,others seem like they’ve been read countless times, their corners softened and worn. The scent of old paper and ink is thick here, rich and intoxicating, wrapping around me with a strange warmth that feels like home.
My gaze lands on a single volume bound in deep red leather, embossed with gold leaf that catches the flickering light. Something about it calls to me, whispers of adventure and mystery. As I pull it from the shelf, a small cloud of dust swirls into the air, glinting like stars suspended in the golden glow of the room.
“Good choice,” Ashton murmurs from the shadows, his voice dark and approving, and I can feel the weight of his pride. It sends a ripple of warmth through me, knowing he’s watching me here, watching me take in every detail of this sanctuary he’s created.
I clutch the book to my chest and move to the oversized armchair nestled by an arched window that overlooks the grounds, its thick velvet cushions a deep, inviting green. Settling into it, I pull my legs up and let myself sink into its embrace. The leather is warm, worn smooth in places, as if it’s been waiting for years for someone to sit just like this.
The book falls open in my lap, its pages thick and whispering, each turn like a gentle breath in the silence. I let myself fall into the story, but every so often, I feel Ashton’s eyes on me, like a guardian watching over something precious. In this quiet, cocooned world he’s created, I let myself forget everything else. The story pulls me in, each line vivid, every word tasting like something I didn’t know I craved.
I glance up from the pages, caught in a moment, and find him still there, leaning against a distant shelf, his eyes dark and intense, drinking in every detail of me lost in this world he’s crafted. I realize he’s not just watching me read; he’swatching me experience this, every flicker of emotion that crosses my face, every slight movement of my hands.
He wanted this—for me to lose myself, to feel something here, something he’s brought into existence just for this moment. And I know he’s savoring it, savoring me as I let this world wrap itself around me.
This library isn’t just a gift. It’s a piece of him, a piece of his obsession, carved and crafted and waiting for me alone.
I hear his footsteps approach me as I get lost in a world that only exists in my imagination. He’s closer now. I can feel his presence envelop me. He kneels before me and I finally look up from the pages I’ve been so lost in.
His fingers glide up my legs, moving me, so I’m no longer curled in the chair with a book, my eyes transfixed on his. There’s a darkness there that causes my body to stir with a desire that curls around me. “Open your pretty legs for me, Dove.” It wasn’t an order, not here, it was a request. One he needed, I don’t even think as I spread my legs wide for him, holding the book to my chest, making sure I don’t lose the page I was reading from.
