“My library,” Elliot says, tone somber as he stands with his hands clasped behind his back.
I meet his gaze with a wrinkled brow. “Why do you sound so displeased, Mr. Rochester?”
His jaw shifts side to side. “Every one of these books is written by a human.”
Some of my joy sinks to my toes, threatening to retreat altogether. “Humans. Those you so vehemently hate.”
He takes a few slow steps toward one of the bookcases. “These books are fiction, Gemma.”
“Oh, so you have a problem with fiction now too?”
His lips melt into a frown, eyes going unfocused as his tone becomes strained. “There’s just so much…feeling in these books. I don’t like the way my body responds to it.”
This surprises me and manages to lessen some of my indignation. I step closer to him. “Does that mean you’ve tried reading them?”
“I’ve been bored now and then,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.
“And how exactly did your body respond to what you read?” I grow suddenly hot, realizing how improper my question sounds, especially with the wicked fantasies I had about fictional earl-Elliot still fresh in my mind.
He, however, doesn’t seem to find anything lewd about it. “I feel things I don’t feel as a wolf. Books give me experiences I shouldn’t have, emotions that aren’t my own. They spell out words that manage to draw tears from my eyes, twist my heart, even though nothing is physically happening to me. It’s a human sorcery I don’t care to mess with.”
His answer both amuses and saddens me. “Elliot, that’s called empathy. It isn’t sorcery. Surely wolves—and unseelie fae, for that matter—have emotions.”
“Not like this. We feel passions driven by our instincts. But the pages in these books…” He shakes his head. “I cannot explain it, but they have a powerful effect on me.”
“That’s sort of the whole point,” I say. “That is why fiction exists. It takes us to places we’ll never go in real life, allows us to feel emotions and experiences we might not get the chance to have ourselves. It isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s a shame you don’t see fiction as the blessing it can be.”
“Blessing? How so?”
“Well, it’s true that books can make you feel things that may not be pleasant. Sad things, losses, grief. But they can make you feel happy things too. Pleasant endings and resolutions you’ll never have yourself.”
He studies me for a few quiet moments. “Is that why you love to read so much?”
As his eyes bore into me, I realize I’ve laid myself bare. Shown one of my most vulnerable truths. “Yes,” I whisper. “I read to experience resolutions I, myself, have never had.”
He walks over to me, his gaze warmer with every inch he closes between us. “Is it worth it?”
My heart hammers against my ribs at his proximity. Memories of the earl-Elliot return to the forefront of my mind, making my lips tingle. “Is what worth it?”
“Experiencing pain that is not your own. Feeling joy and love and a happy ending that’s over as soon as you close the book. Is it worth it? Or does it only make reality colder when you’re forced to return to it? Would it not be better to feel nothing at all?”
I swallow hard. Why do I get the feeling there’s a layer to this question, with something lying beneath his words that I don’t quite understand? Whatever the case, I can only give him my truth. “Yes, it’s worth it. To feel nothing is not a life worth living. Yes, it hurts to return to the mundane after being swept away in a beautiful fantasy, but at least for a time, that fantasy was mine. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t real, nor could ever be.”
“It can never be real, can it?”
I study his face, puzzling over his words. I have no idea what weight the question bears for him, but for me, it carries everything I’ve given up on—the belief that romance is true and men’s hearts aren’t fickle. A world where I’m not scorned by friends, and the people I love stand by my side. A life where I’m seen for who I am, not for who society wants me to be. The chance to be free. As I think it, I realize maybe itcouldbe true. Maybe I do still have hope. Isn’t that why I made this bargain? Why I’m planning on moving back to Isola? If I can believe it’s possible to create the independence I need to free myself from social constructs…then could I learn to believe the rest could be true too? Could I…believe in love again?
It’s a dangerous thought, one I’m not yet ready to face.
Elliot watches me, awaiting an answer to his question. Again, I get that feeling there’s a layer to his words that I can’t see. One that feels both firm and fragile at the same time. One that—if I choose to unearth it—there will be no burying it back again.
So instead of facing it, I do something I rarely do in front of him. I put on my false persona.
With a casual shrug and a forced smile, I say, “Who’s to say what can or can’t be real? Now, show me which books you’ve attempted to read.”
29
Ifeel much lighter as I return to my room with a new book in my hands. After Elliot showed me the few titles he’d tried to read, he left me alone in the library to enjoy myself. I assessed each of the four books he’d pointed out, and settled on the one with the most well-worn spine. Even though the wear of the book could be attributed to the manor’s previous owner, I wanted to select the one Elliot has seemingly read the most.
