Shifting around in bed,I finally give up on the hope that I'll fall asleep soon. For the third night in a row, Enzo hasn't come back to the room. I'd be lying if a small part of me didn't wonder where he's spending his nights—or with whom.
Damn!
Why do I still care what that devil does? Even after he clearly made a mockery of me? I gave him one opening, and he took full advantage.
I'd been so enthralled by him that night that I would have let him do anything to me. But of course he wouldn't, not when the only time he can muster any interest in me is when he wants to humiliate me. He's made his position very clear—I'm not his type. I should be thankful for it, and yet when he'd touched me, my mind had completely blanked. I'd looked into his eyes and lost myself.
Weak!
No matter how much I hate to admit it, Enzo has a certain magnetism about him that doesn't just lie in his perfect looks. No, there's something more in the way he carries himself, or how his smoldering voice can melt…
"Damn it!" I mutter out loud, willing my brain to shut up.
I need to stop thinking about him and his panty-dropping smile.
"I'd certainly been ready to drop my panties for him that night," I say to myself, annoyed that I'd displayed such weakness when I'd just started to think myself immune to him.
With my thoughts betraying me and sleep eluding me, I decide I need a distraction. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's late in the night. There shouldn't be anyone around the house.
I pull a robe over my nightgown and head to the beautiful library I'd spotted on the first floor.
The entire house is eerily quiet, and I do my best not to draw any unwanted attention as I walk down the hallway and open the library door.
Sandalwood furniture graces the entire room, and ceiling-high bookshelves are on each wall, all filled with an assortment of books.
I close the door behind me and look in awe at the old and worn spines, but most of all at the fact that these are clearly collectible pieces. Brushing my hand against them, I feel almost giddy at being in the same room with so many books.
I do a quick inventory of the titles and note that the majority are pre-nineteenth-century. Some sections have duplicate titles in different editions and multiple languages. When I reach Machiavelli'sThe Prince, I'm surprised to count over twenty volumes, with the oldest one being a seventeenth-century edition.
"God, this must be expensive." I open it with care, inhaling the scent of the worn paper and allowing my fingertips to feel its texture.
Putting it back on the shelf, I move on, remarking on an overwhelming focus on Greek authors. There's an entire wall dedicated to the works of Plato, Aristotle, Euripides, and othernames that I've never heard before. But the one book that draws my attention is Plato'sSymposium, a book I'd read about in essays but never in its original form.
I can barely contain my excitement as I pick up the copy and start reading. I nestle in one of the comfortable chairs at the end of the room and lose myself in the pages of the book.
So entranced am I by the content of the book, I don't even hear when someone else comes into the library. I only notice another presence when the book is suddenly lifted from my hands.
"What?" I flinch, startled to see Enzo planted in front of me, the book now in his hands.
"Interesting choice," he comments, lifting an eyebrow at me. "I should have known your tastes run toward the…" a smile creeps onto his face, "racy."
"What's racy about it?" I frown at him, not planning to give him an opening this time. "It's about deconstructing love as a philosophical concept. Nowhere does it talk about sex. But then I shouldn't be surprised ifyourmind is always in the gutter." I huff, standing up and snatching the book from his hand. "Do you evernotthink about sex?" I lift an eyebrow at him, moving to bypass him and leave the library.
I'm not about to engage in another argument, and the best course of action is to retreat.
"Are you sure about that?" He catches my wrist, spinning me around so I'm backed against a bookshelf. His fingers climb up my arm slowly, and I struggle not to shiver at the touch. His palm touches mine, almost joining in a subtle embrace, before the book is gone from my hold once more.
"Did you know that in the original Greek,Symposiumuses onlyerosfor love? Now why would Plato do that when ancient Greek has a plethora of words for love, if the purpose wasn't to emphasize love as desire?"
"You're wrong." I push my chin up, ready to fight him if I have to.
"Am I? There's a reason he usederos,because desire isn't just sexual. There's also the desire topossessbeauty, toownthat which is pleasing to us," he continues, his assessing eyes studying me intently. I stifle a laugh.
Of course he'd ridicule me—even if covertly.
"But that's just the thing, isn't it?Love is not drawn to ugliness." I quote the passage that struck a chord in me, because it justified the actions of all the people who've hurt me in this life. And because according to this logic, I'm too unappealing to be deserving of love.
But I refuse to believe that.
