Chapter 45
Victoria
The library is the only room in this house that doesn’t make me feel like I’m suffocating.
It’s exactly what I need . . .
It smells like paper and dust and the amazing fragrance of old leather.
Also, from what I can tell, no security monitors stare at me in here. Unless they are hidden, which I wouldn’t put past Lorenzo, but at least I don’t have to see them.
Nothing is worse than seeing the damn blinking red light. Every day, in every room, it torments me.
I slip inside and close the door behind me. My shoulders sag the second the latch clicks.
“Okay,” I whisper, pressing my palm to my sternum. “One minute. Just one.”
I love how quiet it is.
I drift along the nearest shelf, fingers grazing titles without really reading them. Italian. Latin. English.
My eyes go wide when I notice a certain spine sitting on the bookshelf.
Of course, he has it.
My heart beat picks up, and for a second, it feels like I’m punched in the gut.
Wuthering Heights.
I take a step closer, reaching my hand out until my fingers hover beside it.
For a second, I’m back in the boathouse, laughing too loudly, thinking nothing bad could ever happen to me.
How wrong I was.
Because now, at twenty-two, I’m married to that boy, and he’s using our past against me.
I pull the book out carefully. It’s not going to bite, but I’m still scared of it.
Once it’s in my hands, I take it in.
My brow furrows.
It looks well-read. The cover is worn, with faded letters and yellowing pages.
My throat tightens.
I flip it open.
This is very old. A first edition?
My breath catches. “No,” I whisper, because it feels like the only word my brain can manage.
It can’t be.
Or . . .
I’ve seen first editions behind museum glass, and it looks exactly like that.
Would Lorenzo really have one sitting here like it’s a casual thing? Like it’s just another knife in his collection.
Yes.
Yes, he would.
I turn the page gently.
A thin pencil line runs along a passage. My eyes snag on the words.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
Like whoever underlined it hated how true it was.
My mouth goes dry. I trace the line with my fingertip, skin prickling.
“Of course,” I huff. “This is the passage that would be underlined.”
A floorboard creaks behind me, and my whole body stiffens. The book is still in my hands when I turn.
Lorenzo stands in the doorway. His expression is blank, but his eyes latch onto the book immediately, and something sharp flickers there. Recognition.
I don’t move, and neither does he.
The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable.
“How do you always sneak up on me?” I clutch the book tighter. “Is this a talent of yours?”
Lorenzo eases the door shut behind him, and the soft click echoes through the space.
As he strolls over to me, his gaze doesn’t leave the book. Something about the look in his eyes seems predatory. Dangerous.
“Natural talent . . .” He stops a few feet away. His eyes drag up from the book to my face. “But you’re the one who looks guilty.”
I blink. “Guilty? For what? Reading? I think you’re projecting.”
His mouth curves, but only barely. A hint of amusement plays on his lips. “For touching my things.”
I hold up the book, fingers splayed around the worn leather. “It’s a book, Lorenzo. Not a gun.”
He takes a step closer, and I flash to the open book. His eyes dip to the underlined words, and something changes in his face so quickly I almost miss it.
A micro-flinch. A crack. Then his expression smooths again.
“Sometimes books are worse.” His voice is low enough to make me shiver.
And man, does my pulse do something stupid.
I hate my pulse.
I shift my grip, forcing myself to focus on the object instead of the man. “This is a first edition.”
His shoulders rise in a careless shrug as he drifts toward the nearest chair, lowering himself into it. One ankle rests over his knee.
“You’re observant,” he drawls.
My laugh comes out sharp. “That’s one way to phrase it. The other way would be . . . why do you have this just sitting here like it’s a paperback you found in a little free library?”
His gaze lifts again, slow and lazy. “Because I can.”
“Of course.” I flip the book closed and then reopen it, unable to stop myself. “Of course, the answer is because you can.”
Lorenzo’s eyes track every movement of my hands. “You’re looking at it like you’re planning on stealing it.”
“Not a bad idea. You need security,” I shoot back.
His mouth twitches. “I think I have plenty of that.”
I glare up at him, not finding his joke funny at all. “Have you finished it?”
The question slips out before I can stop it. All those years ago, we never did finish it.
For a second, I expect him to mock me. To make a joke. To turn it into something cruel and clever.
Instead, his gaze drops to the book again, and the air in the room shifts.
He leans back in the chair, fingers steepling for a moment like he’s deciding what version of himself he’s willing to show me. Then his jaw tightens.
“Many times,” he mutters under his breath.
I blink.
He’s showing a part of himself to me.
The most ordinary thing he’s offered me since the wedding, and my brain doesn’t know what to do with it.
“How many?” I ask, slower now, voice softer despite myself.
Lorenzo’s eyes lift—sharp, direct—and hold mine.
“Too many to count.”
The words hang in the room like a large weight.
A raw admission that he doesn’t dress up or pretend is something else.
It lands.
Hard.
Right in my chest.
My throat tightens in a way I hate. “That’s . . . depressing.”
His mouth curves, but it isn’t amused this time. It’s bitter. Almost tired.
“Depressing is the point.” He taps two fingers on the arm of the chair. “It’s a love story about obsession. Ruin. People who mistake destruction for devotion.”
My fingers curl around the pages. “You read it for fun?”
His gaze slides over me, slow and assessing. “I read it because it’s honest.”
I swallow. “Honest?”
Lorenzo’s eyes flick down to the book again, then back up. His voice stays quiet, but there’s steel underneath it . . . something personal.
“It doesn’t pretend love is gentle,” he tells me. “It doesn’t pretend that longing makes you noble. It admits what people really do when they want something they can’t have.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
All these years ago, we joked about the book and us, but now more than ever, it feels real. No longer a coincidence.
I try to smother it with sarcasm. “Do you keep it around as inspiration?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Inspiration?” he repeats. “No. It’s a reminder.”
My heartbeat stutters. I hate that I hear the edge in that sentence. I hate that I know who he’s aiming it at.
I lift my chin. “You’re implying I’m Catherine.”
Lorenzo’s gaze drags over my face, and his mouth curves again, but this time, it’s wicked. “You’re not Catherine.”
I bristle. “Oh? Thank you for the character assessment.”
His eyes flick to my mouth and linger for a fraction too long. “You married me after all.”
My stomach drops.
“Yet you still consider yourself Heathcliff,” I say, voice sharper than necessary. “Brooding. Unhinged. Ruined by love. Out for revenge.”
Lorenzo’s laugh is low, dangerous, amused in the way a predator is amused by prey that tries to bite.
He rises from the chair with slow grace, crossing the room toward me.
“I might have been ruined by love.” He’s close enough that I can smell him. “But I also think I’m improved by it.”
I swallow hard. “That’s the most horrifying sentence you’ve ever said to me, and you literally threatened to cage me.”
His eyes glitter. “The cage is a metaphor.”
“Not in my experience,” I deadpan.
He leans slightly closer, and I can feel the heat of him without him touching me. The space between us is as thin as paper.
“Are you enjoying my library?” he asks, making my head spin from the change of subject.
I blink, thrown. “Am I . . . what?”
He gestures toward the book in my hands, then toward the shelves around us. “You’ve been in here more than once.”
My fingers tighten instinctively. “I’m allowed to be in here.”
“You’re allowed to be wherever I decide you’re allowed.”
The cruelty is back, and let’s not forget the control.
My anger flares hot enough to burn through the softness his earlier admission created.
I lift my chin and force my voice steady. “Then why are you here?”
His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows. Then his expression smooths, and his mouth curves. “Because you took my book.”
I scoff, but the sound comes out too thin. “I didn’t take it. I touched it.”
“Yet you’re still holding it.”
My chest tightens, and I hate that he notices everything.
I try to cut the moment with sarcasm. “It’s rare to find a first edition that isn’t locked behind glass. I’m appreciating it.”
“Appreciating,” he repeats, voice low. “It’s a pretty fucked-up book if you ask me.”
“I didn’t ask.”
His eyes lift to mine, sharp. “No, you didn’t.”
The air between us feels charged. My pulse bangs against my throat like a warning.
I hate that my voice softens anyway. “Why do you read it so much?”
His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he’ll snap. Mock. Deflect. Turn it into something vile. Instead, he exhales slowly.
“Because it touches on something most don’t get.”
My breath catches. “What don’t most people get?”
Lorenzo’s lips tip up, but there’s no humor in the way they move. Instead, it feels bitter. Broken. “Wanting someone, and realizing wanting isn’t the same as being wanted back.”
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I stare at him, stunned by the honesty. By the fact that it’s slipping out of him. I don’t know what to do with it. So I do what I always do . . . I go for the throat.
“You’re not a victim,” I whisper, forcing steel into my voice. “Don’t talk like you are.”
His gaze hardens. All the softness is gone instantly, replaced by something cold and lethal.
“Victim?” He steps closer, forcing me to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. “No, Little Bird. I’m the consequence.”