Chapter 20 Allegra
ALLEGRA
Shifting around in bed, I finally give up on the hope that I'll fall asleep soon. For the third night in a row, Enzo hasn't come back to the room. I'd be lying if a small part of me didn't wonder where he's spending his nights—or with whom.
Damn!
Why do I still care what that devil does? Even after he clearly made a mockery of me? I gave him one opening, and he took full advantage.
I'd been so enthralled by him that night that I would have let him do anything to me.
But of course he wouldn't, not when the only time he can muster any interest in me is when he wants to humiliate me.
He's made his position very clear—I'm not his type.
I should be thankful for it, and yet when he'd touched me, my mind had completely blanked.
I'd looked into his eyes and lost myself.
Weak!
No matter how much I hate to admit it, Enzo has a certain magnetism about him that doesn't just lie in his perfect looks. No, there's something more in the way he carries himself, or how his smoldering voice can melt…
"Damn it!" I mutter out loud, willing my brain to shut up.
I need to stop thinking about him and his panty-dropping smile.
"I'd certainly been ready to drop my panties for him that night," I say to myself, annoyed that I'd displayed such weakness when I'd just started to think myself immune to him.
With my thoughts betraying me and sleep eluding me, I decide I need a distraction. A quick glance at the clock tells me it's late in the night. There shouldn't be anyone around the house.
I pull a robe over my nightgown and head to the beautiful library I'd spotted on the first floor.
The entire house is eerily quiet, and I do my best not to draw any unwanted attention as I walk down the hallway and open the library door.
Sandalwood furniture graces the entire room, and ceiling-high bookshelves are on each wall, all filled with an assortment of books.
I close the door behind me and look in awe at the old and worn spines, but most of all at the fact that these are clearly collectible pieces. Brushing my hand against them, I feel almost giddy at being in the same room with so many books.
I do a quick inventory of the titles and note that the majority are pre-nineteenth-century.
Some sections have duplicate titles in different editions and multiple languages.
When I reach Machiavelli's The Prince, I'm surprised to count over twenty volumes, with the oldest one being a seventeenth-century edition.
"God, this must be expensive." I open it with care, inhaling the scent of the worn paper and allowing my fingertips to feel its texture.
Putting it back on the shelf, I move on, remarking on an overwhelming focus on Greek authors.
There's an entire wall dedicated to the works of Plato, Aristotle, Euripides, and other names that I've never heard before.
But the one book that draws my attention is Plato's Symposium, a book I'd read about in essays but never in its original form.
I can barely contain my excitement as I pick up the copy and start reading. I nestle in one of the comfortable chairs at the end of the room and lose myself in the pages of the book.
So entranced am I by the content of the book, I don't even hear when someone else comes into the library. I only notice another presence when the book is suddenly lifted from my hands.
"What?" I flinch, startled to see Enzo planted in front of me, the book now in his hands.
"Interesting choice," he comments, lifting an eyebrow at me. "I should have known your tastes run toward the…" a smile creeps onto his face, "racy."
"What's racy about it?" I frown at him, not planning to give him an opening this time.
"It's about deconstructing love as a philosophical concept.
Nowhere does it talk about sex. But then I shouldn't be surprised if your mind is always in the gutter.
" I huff, standing up and snatching the book from his hand.
"Do you ever not think about sex?" I lift an eyebrow at him, moving to bypass him and leave the library.
I'm not about to engage in another argument, and the best course of action is to retreat.
"Are you sure about that?" He catches my wrist, spinning me around so I'm backed against a bookshelf. His fingers climb up my arm slowly, and I struggle not to shiver at the touch. His palm touches mine, almost joining in a subtle embrace, before the book is gone from my hold once more.
"Did you know that in the original Greek, Symposium uses only eros for love? Now why would Plato do that when ancient Greek has a plethora of words for love, if the purpose wasn't to emphasize love as desire?"
"You're wrong." I push my chin up, ready to fight him if I have to.
"Am I? There's a reason he used eros, because desire isn't just sexual. There's also the desire to possess beauty, to own that which is pleasing to us," he continues, his assessing eyes studying me intently. I stifle a laugh.
Of course he'd ridicule me—even if covertly.
"But that's just the thing, isn't it? Love is not drawn to ugliness." I quote the passage that struck a chord in me, because it justified the actions of all the people who've hurt me in this life. And because according to this logic, I'm too unappealing to be deserving of love.
But I refuse to believe that.
"You can insult me all you want, but I'm done putting up with you." I grit my teeth and push against him.
"Easy, little tigress, you're distorting my words. I'm not insulting you. Beauty and ugliness are both subjective," he tries to explain himself, but I'm sick of him and his superficial world.
"No. You're the one distorting the meaning of this," I grab onto the book, but he doesn't let go.
We're both holding onto one corner, our eyes meeting and having their own personal battle.
"You're missing the point entirely. The ultimate type of love is the one that makes you whole, not the desire, which is purely physical.
Those who were once one being were separated by the cruel gods, condemned to search for their other half for an eternity, to never be whole without them.
" My voice trembles with the intensity of my passion.
Because what if there is such a thing as a soulmate—my other half?
He'll be able to accept and love all of me, including my ugliness.
"Who would have thought you'd be such a romantic? You, the cynic who proclaimed to be so empty. What would make you whole, I wonder?"
"Not you," the words tumble accusingly from my mouth, and his eyebrows shoot up in a challenge.
"Really," he drawls, moving closer and backing me further into the furniture, the shelves digging painfully into my skin, "too bad I'm the only one who's ever going to fill you up, little tigress.
" His hand moves up the column of my neck slowly, his fingers wrapping around my throat and applying soft pressure.
"Let go!" My nostrils flare as my anger mounts. "I don't want anyone's hand-me-downs." I relish the way his eyes widen, the insult hitting its mark.
"Little tigress, it seems we're at an impasse.
" His thumb caresses my skin in circular motions, applying increasing pressure to his hold.
"You need to learn when to sheathe these claws of yours," he says as his other hand grabs onto my wrist, the book falling to the ground. "I'm patient, but even I have a limit."
"Oh, really?" I ask innocently, batting my eyes at him. "I'm not afraid of you, Enzo Agosti. So go ahead, do your worst."
"Do my worst?" he chuckles, his thumb moving up and under my chin, pushing it up so I'm staring right into his eyes. He's so close I can feel his breath on my skin. "What if I want to do my best?" His question throws me off completely, and my eyes widen for a second before I realize his intention.
Then his lips are on mine.
I'm so shocked, I just freeze.
His lips are soft and gentle—the complete opposite of him. He's slowly teasing a reaction out of me, and just as I start returning the kiss, he stops.
"Things are rarely as they seem, little tigress.
" He takes a step back, his eyes still rooted on my lips.
"You're too quick to judge. Eros is indeed desire, but it's not always physical.
" He raises one finger to my forehead. "Sometimes we desire someone's mind, and we want to possess the spirit.
" His hand moves lower, his fingertips grazing my chest before settling over my heart.
"It's easy to take the body; the soul is the one forever out of reach. "
I shove his hand away.
"You're right. You can always take my body by force, but you'll never have my soul," I reply triumphantly.
"Is that a challenge?" He quirks an eyebrow at me, almost amused.
"It's a prediction," I say confidently.
"Allegra, Allegra," he makes a tsk sound, shaking his head slowly, "what am I going to do with you?"
"Leave me alone?" I ask, my tone playful yet hopeful at the same time.
"Maybe I should," he starts, and I'm surprised at his quick acquiescence, but then he finishes the sentence with a shrug, "doesn't mean I will," and my face falls.
He turns to leave, but not before I catch the slight pull of his mouth, the satisfaction of having the last word.
Alone in the library, I pick up the book again, intent on finishing it. In the end, I begrudgingly have to admit that Enzo might have been onto something.
Desire becomes increasingly nuanced, from shallow to deep. And in the end, the love that is born out of desire is all-encompassing. It becomes whole because by desiring the soul—the very essence of being—everything becomes beautiful.
"What do you mean I must go down?" I look at Ana in disbelief.
"I'm sorry, but Signora said that from now on, if you want to eat, you'll have to come to the dining room. She's prohibited every member of the staff from bringing you any food."