I debate whether or not I want to be honest, but I’ve admitted more about myself to her than to anybody else. “I’ve read all but three,” I admit, trying to act casual about it even when she shoots me a surprised but impressed glance. “English has always been my favorite subject. When people were bitching about having to write a report onThe Scarlet LetterorMoby Dick, I was diving in and highlighting everything I could.”
She mock-gasps, a hand flying to her chest. “I hear writing in books is punishable by death.”
My cheek twitches with the threat of a smile that takes everything in me not to give her. “That is only for the heathens who dog-ear book corners.”
Winter plays along. “And you’d never dare.”
“Never,” I tell her with a flicker of amusement.
She opens another book to inspect the pages, frowning at the lack of highlighter or ink smudges in the margins. She won’t find any on these. Other editions, sure. But not my collection.
“These editions cost too much for me to write down my thoughts in them,” I say, still sitting behind my desk. I needed the distance from her—the block of a large piece of polished walnut to separate us before I did something stupid.
Stupider than bringing her home.
Dumber than pinning her against a wall.
Again.
I scrub at my jaw, wiping away the thought before my erection comes back in full force. “I find reading to be a peaceful escape from reality when I no longer wish to live my own life.” I gesture toward the shelves. I love the various colors. The gold foiled font on the spines that stands out against the dark, aged wood. This space may be my favorite. “Why live one life when you can live thousands?”
Her eyes soften, but there’s still some level of skepticism in them. “Is your life so bad that you need to escape it?”
I lean back in my chair. In her eyes, I probably sound like a privileged crybaby. And in many ways, I am. I’m lucky to experience wealth and good fortune despite my upbringing. But I’ve had to work past a lot of shit in order to be content with where I’m at. “We all have things we try to escape,” I reply, tilting my head. “My past is mine.”
I don’t elaborate, and she doesn’t press.
Smart girl.
She nibbles on her bottom lip, and I can tell there’s another question coming regardless. “Do you openly try to hide this side of you for a reason?”
“And which side is that?”
Winter lets out a small, quiet breath. “The human one. People can relate to that. It isn’t a weakness, Thomas.”
I’ve never liked anybody calling me anything other than Moskins because it reminds me ofthem. Of the very past that I want to brush away and lock up in the deepest pits of my mind and never think about.
But coming from her mouth, it feels right. As right as when Emaly calls me by my name. My skin doesn’t crawl. My stomach doesn’t sink. No. She causes the opposite reaction.
“I never said it was a weakness,” I huff out, crossing my arms and resting them on my chest. “Maybe I just don’t give a fuck what people think of me. Have you ever thought of that?”
She’s contemplative, her body turning away from mine as she gives her full attention to the pricey novels. “If you didn’t care about what people thought, then you never would have met me. One day, you’ll have to be honest with yourself.”
Fat chance that will ever come to fruition.
“What do you think I’m lying to myself about, oh wise one?” I quip, not seeming to faze her with my sarcasm.
She still doesn’t turn when she answers, “If I had to guess, everything.”
For once, I’m quiet. And the more I think about it, the more I become annoyed. Because who does she think she is to assume she knows anything about me? She doesn’t.
She doesn’t know the sleepless nights.
The endless training.
The counseling sessions.
The foster homes.
