My heartbeat stutters. I hate that I hear the edge in that sentence. I hate that I know who he’s aiming it at.
I lift my chin. “You’re implying I’m Catherine.”
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, and his mouth curves again, but this time, it’s wicked. “You’re not Catherine.”
I bristle. “Oh? Thank you for the character assessment.”
His eyes flick to my mouth and linger for a fraction too long. “You married me after all.”
My stomach drops.
“Yet you still consider yourself Heathcliff,” I say, voice sharper than necessary. “Brooding. Unhinged. Ruined by love. Out for revenge.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is low, dangerous, amused in the way a predator is amused by prey that tries to bite.
He rises from the chair with slow grace, crossing the room toward me.
“I might have been ruined by love.” He’s close enough that I can smell him. “But I also think I’m improved by it.”
I swallow hard. “That’s the most horrifying sentence you’ve ever said to me, and you literally threatened to cage me.”
His eyes glitter. “The cage is a metaphor.”
“Not in my experience,” I deadpan.
He leans slightly closer, and I can feel the heat of him without him touching me. The space between us is as thin as paper.
“Are you enjoying my library?” he asks, making my head spin from the change of subject.
I blink, thrown. “Am I . . . what?”
He gestures toward the book in my hands, then toward the shelves around us. “You’ve been in here more than once.”
My fingers tighten instinctively. “I’m allowed to be in here.”
“You’re allowed to be wherever I decide you’re allowed.”
The cruelty is back, and let’s not forget the control.
My anger flares hot enough to burn through the softness his earlier admission created.
I lift my chin and force my voice steady. “Then why are you here?”
His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows. Then his expression smooths, and his mouth curves. “Because you took my book.”
I scoff, but the sound comes out too thin. “I didn’t take it. I touched it.”
“Yet you’re still holding it.”
My chest tightens, and I hate that he notices everything.
I try to cut the moment with sarcasm. “It’s rare to find a first edition that isn’t locked behind glass. I’m appreciating it.”
“Appreciating,” he repeats, voice low. “It’s a pretty fucked-up book if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask.”
His eyes lift to mine, sharp. “No, you didn’t.”
