It’s exactly what I need . . .
It smells like paper and dust and the amazing fragrance of old leather.
Also, from what I can tell, no security monitors stare at me in here. Unless they are hidden, which I wouldn’t put past Lorenzo, but at least I don’t have to see them.
Nothing is worse than seeing the damn blinking red light. Every day, in every room, it torments me.
I slip inside and close the door behind me. My shoulders sag the second the latch clicks.
“Okay,” I whisper, pressing my palm to my sternum. “One minute. Just one.”
I love how quiet it is.
I drift along the nearest shelf, fingers grazing titles without really reading them. Italian. Latin. English.
My eyes go wide when I notice a certain spine sitting on the bookshelf.
Of course, he has it.
My heart beat picks up, and for a second, it feels like I’m punched in the gut.
Wuthering Heights.
I take a step closer, reaching my hand out until my fingers hover beside it.
For a second, I’m back in the boathouse, laughing too loudly, thinking nothing bad could ever happen to me.
How wrong I was.
Because now, at twenty-two, I’m married to that boy, and he’s using our past against me.
I pull the book out carefully. It’s not going to bite, but I’m still scared of it.
Once it’s in my hands, I take it in.
My brow furrows.
It looks well-read. The cover is worn, with faded letters and yellowing pages.
My throat tightens.
I flip it open.
This is very old.A first edition?
My breath catches. “No,” I whisper, because it feels like the only word my brain can manage.
It can’t be.
Or . . .
I’ve seen first editions behind museum glass, and it looks exactly like that.
Would Lorenzo really have one sitting here like it’s a casual thing? Like it’s just another knife in his collection.
Yes.
Yes, he would.
