Page 70 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

I set the box down carefully.

The second I straighten, she drops to her knees beside it and opens the flaps.

The transformation is immediate. Her eyes sparkle. She lifts the first book from the box with almost ridiculous care. Like she’s greeting an old friend.

I’ve seen beautiful women before. Plenty of them. But there’s something strangely captivating about watching Sofia surrounded by the things she loves.

The excitement in her eyes. The relief. The comfort.

For a moment, she forgets herself. Forgets me. Forgets everything except the books.

And somehow that makes it impossible to look away.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

The words pull me from whatever strange place my thoughts had wandered.

I clear my throat. “No big deal.”

“It was still nice.”

I nod once. Unsure what to do with that. Unsure why her smile lingers in my head longer than it should.

I should do the next logical thing and step back, leave her alone. I almost do, until my attention shifts to what she’s doing.

Sofia begins arranging her books.

Not randomly. Not alphabetically. Not by author. Not by genre. At least not entirely. I watch as she pulls out a thick hardcover and places it on the second shelf. Then another goes three spaces to the left. A third is placed beside it. A fourth goes somewhere completely different.

My brow furrows. There’s no obvious logic to it. Yet Sofia never hesitates. She doesn’t pause to think. Every book goes exactly where she intends.

She steps back. Studies the shelf. Moves one book two positions over. Nods to herself. Then continues.

Interesting.

I lean against the nearest shelf and watch. The longer I observe, the more convinced I become that there’s a pattern.

A subtle one.

Something beneath the surface. Not enough for me to identify immediately, but enough to recognize that it exists. Sofia arranges them like she’s solving a puzzle. Or building one.

My mind immediately starts looking for structure. Publication dates. Authors. Languages. Genres. Colors.

Nothing fits.

And yet the placement is too deliberate to be meaningless.

“You’ve done this before?”

She glances up. “Done what?”

“Whatever this is.”

Her gaze follows mine to the shelf. A smile touches her lips. “Oh.” She returns another book to its place. “I always organize them this way.”

“What way?”

She shrugs. “The right way.”