Page 89 of The Bratva Enforcer and His Virgin Bride

“Fine.” I sigh dramatically. “A few hundred.”

Lukyan almost chokes on his drink.

I laugh heartily. “What?”

“A few hundred?” He shakes his head. “And you’ve read them all?”

“You bet.”

“Damn.” He grabs his glass and knocks back whatever liquid is in it.

I point a fork at him. “I see you own a library with so many books. Why are you surprised?”

He shrugs. “It’s literally just decor. I haven’t read more than twenty books in my whole life.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He bites back a grin. “But I’m glad I have it since that’s where you spend all your time.”

Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the casual way he says it. “If you need any specific book stocked, just let me know. I’ll get it for you.”

I can’t help smiling.

The conversation flows more easily after that. We talk more about books first. My favorite authors. The novels I reread every year.

The embarrassing phase I went through when I was fifteen, and became convinced every brooding fictional hero was secretly misunderstood.

Lukyan finds that far more amusing than he should.

“Let me guess,” he says. “You thought you could fix them.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

I groan. “You’re impossible.”

“You just admitted I’m right.”

Unfortunately, he is.

The annoying part is how pleased he looks about it.

As the evening continues, I find myself talking more than I intended. About school. About university. About the tiny apartment I rented after graduation. About the bookstore near my old neighborhood that used to let me sit for hours without buying anything.

Somewhere along the way, I start talking about my father. Not the painful parts. Not the loss. Just the memories. The good ones.

How he always bought me books for my birthday.

How he’d leave notes between pages for me to find later.

How he taught me that libraries weren’t just rooms filled with books.

They were collections of lives.

Lukyan listens quietly.

Never interrupting.