Chapter 6
Charlie
Days had passed since that damn moment in the library, and still I couldn’t shake her.
I’d tried. God knows I’d tried. Pushed her out of my head the same way I shoved back the memories that gnawed at me when the nights stretched too long.
Usually, it worked. I’d bury myself in a book, drown myself in the firelight, let the silence wrap around me until even the ghosts went quiet.
But not this time. Not with her.
Belle.
Her voice lingered in the halls long after she’d gone, humming carols under her breath like she owned the air in this house.
Her smile flashed uninvited whenever I closed my eyes.
Even the smell of dust and paper seemed different since she’d started touching my books, moving through my shadows like they were hers to claim.
And damn me, I hated it.
The sky outside had turned heavy and gray by the afternoon, snow tumbling fast, the kind of storm that swallowed roads whole.
The wind rattled the old windows, whistling through cracks I’d never bothered to seal.
The house shuddered with every gust, and I muttered under my breath, tugging the curtains tighter.
She’d leave early today. She had to. No one in their right mind trudged through a blizzard just to shuffle books in a library that wasn’t theirs. She’d pack up her neat little notebook, tuck her scarf around her neck, and scurry back home where it was warm, where people waited for her.
That was what I told myself. Over and over, like a mantra.
She had no business being here in the first place.
And yet, my ears strained for the sound of her humming. My eyes flicked to the library door more than once, half-expecting her to push it open with that stubborn little smile, cheeks pink from the cold. I cursed myself for it, gripping the arms of my chair until the wood groaned.
Why did it matter? If the storm chased her off, good. That was what I wanted, wasn’t it? One less ray of sunshine slicing through the dark I’d worked so hard to build.
Still, the thought of her leaving before she was ready clawed at me in ways I didn’t care to name.
I stood, pacing to the window, watching the snow whip across the hill, erasing everything in its path. The world out there was brutal, unforgiving. She didn’t belong in it—not trudging through to get here, and sure as hell not inside this house.
I told myself she’d be gone soon. She’d come to her senses.
But deep down, where the truth liked to fester, I knew better.
Belle wasn’t built like the rest of them. She wouldn’t scare easy. And storm or no storm, I had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going anywhere.
Just when I thought I’d finally get some peace, there she was.
The door creaked open, a blast of cold air sweeping in with her, and Belle stood on the threshold knocking snow off her boots. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the wind, her scarf dusted with white like she’d wrestled the storm itself just to get here.
I growled, the words tearing out before I could stop them. “Storm’s coming. You shouldn’t be here.”
Any sensible person would’ve taken the hint. Hell, any sensible person wouldn’t have shown up at all.
But Belle?
She just breezed right past me like the growl hadn’t even touched her. She unwound her scarf, snowflakes scattering onto the floor, and tossed me a smile over her shoulder.
“The books aren’t going to sort themselves,” she said, stubborn as ever, her voice warm despite the chill clinging to her clothes.
I clenched my jaw, watching her march straight for the library like she owned the place.
Inside, I was torn in two. Part of me wanted to slam the door shut behind her, bark at her until she finally got the message and left me alone in my shadows. That was how it was supposed to work—growl, glare, silence. People scattered. End of story.
But another part of me… damn it, I couldn’t ignore it. There was grit in her, a kind of fire I hadn’t seen in a long time. She wasn’t here for pity, wasn’t here to gawk at scars or whisper about monsters. She was here to work, storm or no storm. And I hated how much I admired that.
Frustration boiled under my skin. Why wouldn’t she scare off like the rest? Why wouldn’t she just let me keep my solitude?
Instead, she filled the house with her stubborn cheer, and I was left standing there, torn between pushing her out and secretly grateful she refused to go.
She disappeared into the library like it was the most natural thing in the world, shedding her coat and scarf and diving straight into the stacks.
I stood in the hall for a long moment, listening to the sound of her humming as she shifted books around, the scrape of leather spines against wood, the scratch of her pen against paper.
She worked like the storm outside didn’t exist, like nothing could touch her once she was surrounded by those shelves.
I turned toward the window, frowning. The snow was falling harder now, thick flakes whipping sideways in the wind.
The world beyond the glass was vanishing, hill and trees swallowed in white.
The old windows rattled in their frames, and I cursed under my breath.
This wasn’t just a passing squall—it was turning ugly, fast.
She should’ve stayed home. Any fool could see that. She had no business trudging through a storm to paw through my ghosts. But there she was, in my library, scribbling notes, humming some carol like the weather wasn’t gnawing at the house itself.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched her for a while, jaw tight. The lamplight caught her hair; her face softened in concentration, and for a second, the storm outside seemed far away. She looked too at ease in there, like she belonged in a place I’d long since given up calling a home.
The wind howled, rattling the panes harder, and I told myself she’d have to leave soon. The storm was getting worse, and no amount of stubbornness could change that.
Still, a part of me knew—she wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight.
And damn it all, I wasn’t sure if that thought unsettled me… or steadied me.
Hours slipped by while she worked, her humming filling the corners I’d kept empty for years. The storm never let up—wind clawing at the windows, snow hammering down so hard I couldn’t see past the porch. I kept telling myself she’d leave soon, but she never did.
Then, without warning, the power cut out. A sharp click, then nothing. The lamps died, the hum of the furnace faded, and the house plunged into darkness. Only the moan of the wind outside remained, long and low, like some beast circling the walls.
She jumped. I heard the quick catch of her breath from across the room, the sudden stillness as her hands froze mid-task. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe she’d bolt, that this would finally drive her out. But then she cleared her throat, softer now, and said, “I’ll be fine here.”
Brave words. Braver than most. But I heard the truth beneath them—the faint tremor in her voice, the way her breathing came quick and sharp before she steadied it.
Something in me stirred. Old instincts, hardwired and unyielding. The part of me that had dragged men out of burning wreckage, that had stood guard in the desert heat when sleep was a luxury. The part that had once known how to protect, even when I didn’t want to.
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay still, to keep my voice low and even. I didn’t want to care. Didn’t want to let her need slip under my skin the way her smile already had.
But in the dark, with the storm pressing in and her breath quickening, I couldn’t lie to myself.
I wanted to keep her safe.
Even if I’d never admit it out loud.
“You can’t sort in the dark,” I muttered, my voice cutting through the stillness. The library was nothing but shadow now, the shelves looming like giants. “You’ll ruin more than you fix.”
She hesitated, and that was when I noticed the small tremor in her shoulders, the way she drew her arms tighter around herself. The storm was gnawing at the house, and with the heat gone, the chill was already creeping in.
I cursed under my breath. “Come on.”
Her head lifted, eyes questioning. I didn’t give her a choice, just jerked my chin toward the front room and strode ahead.
At the fireplace, I crouched low, striking a match with more force than necessary. “Wasted wood,” I grumbled as the flames licked up, catching on the logs I’d been saving. “Storm’ll eat through the stack faster than I can split more.”
But the fire took, crackling to life, throwing warmth into the room. She settled close to it, hugging her knees, the glow wrapping her in gold.
I should’ve looked away. Should’ve busied myself with the fire, the storm, anything but her. But for a heartbeat too long, I didn’t.
The flicker of the flames softened her face, made her eyes brighter, made her smile curve in a way that hit me harder than it should’ve. She looked… peaceful. At home, almost.
My chest tightened.
Too fast, I tore my gaze away, jaw clenching until my teeth ached. I had no business noticing details like that. Not her smile, not the light in her eyes. She was off-limits.
She was a reminder of everything I’d lost. A reminder of who I used to be, of the man who’d taken it all from me.
She was trouble.
And I couldn’t afford trouble.
The fire caught well enough, crackling low, and the glow settled into the room.
She sat close, knees hugged to her chest, her scarf still looped around her neck.
For a long while, the only sound was the hiss of the logs and the moan of the storm against the windows. I could’ve lived with that silence.
But she wasn’t the type to let it stand.
“It’s really coming down out there,” she said softly, watching the flames. “Think it’ll last all night?”
“Likely,” I muttered, poking at the fire with the iron. “Storm like this doesn’t blow through quick.”
She nodded, then smiled faintly. “Guess it’s a good thing books don’t mind the weather.”
I snorted. “Books don’t mind much of anything.”
“Unlike people,” she said, tilting her head at me. I gave her a look, sharp enough to warn her off, but she only grinned, unbothered. “You’re a grouch, you know that?”
“Better a grouch than a fool,” I shot back, dry as ash.
Her laugh bubbled up, warm in the cold room. “Oh, come on. You try so hard to be intimidating, but I’m not scared. Not even a little.”
“Maybe you should be.”
She leaned forward, eyes dancing in the firelight. “Maybe you should smile once in a while. I bet you’d scare fewer people.”
I huffed through my nose, more air than amusement, but it was the closest I’d come to a laugh in years. “Smiling’s overrated. Waste of energy.”
“Not true,” she countered easily. “Smiles make people feel safe. They make people feel seen.”
I shook my head, staring into the flames, but I couldn’t shake the way her words pressed against the walls I’d built. She spoke like the world wasn’t sharp, like kindness was something you could give without losing pieces of yourself.
“Books don’t care about smiles,” I said, voice gruff again.
“No,” she agreed. “But people do.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy like before. It lingered, softer somehow, warmed by the fire and her stubborn brightness.
For the first time in a long while, I felt the edges of my bitterness loosen. Just a fraction. Like maybe the storm outside wasn’t the only one easing up.
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. She was still smiling, watching the fire as though it held secrets worth keeping. Her face glowed in the flicker of light, and I realized something I didn’t want to admit, even to myself—her presence didn’t feel like an intrusion anymore.
It felt… right.
I clenched my jaw, dragging my gaze back to the flames before she could catch me staring. I couldn’t afford right. Not with her. Not with the past clawing at my heels.
Still, her laughter echoed in my chest, and no matter how tightly I held on to the bitterness, it wasn’t biting quite as hard tonight.
I told myself I was only keeping an eye on her, making sure she didn’t burn herself leaning too close to the fire. But the lie wore thin fast.
My gaze lingered longer than it should have—on the way she brushed her hair back from her face, fingers tucking a loose strand behind her ear. On the little laugh she gave at one of her own remarks, light and careless, like the storm outside couldn’t touch her.
Heat coiled in my chest, sharp and foreign. Dangerous. I hadn’t felt it in years, not since before the fire, before the betrayals. Desire had no place in me anymore, no right to crawl back up from the grave I’d buried it in.
I tried to blame the firelight. Told myself it was just the glow playing tricks, softening her edges, making her seem like something out of reach. But the truth pressed in hard, undeniable.
I wanted her.
And that terrified me.
She was nothing like her father. God help me, she was better. Honest where he’d been false. Bright where he’d been cruel. Too good by far. And that made her the worst temptation of all.
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, as if I could hold myself together by sheer force. If I gave in, if I let even a fraction of this longing show, it would undo everything.
Then she glanced up, her eyes meeting mine across the flicker of the flames. She smiled—soft, unguarded, like she saw something in me worth smiling at.
Something in me cracked, a fissure running deeper than I dared admit.
And for the first time in years, I was afraid—not of the storm, not of the scars, but of what I might do if I stopped fighting.