Chapter 8
BETH
Dear Aphrodite. He was a dream.
Raskov. A name whispered in boardrooms, seminar halls and even back alleys. It opened doors, ended careers and had the power to silence Scotland.
Mentioned though briefly in one of our history topics, the Raskovs were a Russian family who basically helped build Scotland.
If you walked across a gleaming glass tower that you could swear stretched into the sky, there was a fifty percent chance the Raskov name was etched into it. Their mark was everywhere, from the tallest buildings to the smallest details.
They were the truest definition of old money, old power, and who knew, perhaps old secrets too—though they had forever posed a spotless, perfect front.
The Raskov was a centuries old legacy steeped in wealth and influence.
Yet here I was, a girl from the tiny part of Braemont that I could swear was not even on the map, standing next to the possible heir of that very empire.
Yes, Callan Raskov, the man I met at the book signing, was the only son of the late Eugene Raskov—co-founder of Lochborne Academy of Arts.
And I was not dreaming. Because the slice made by a glass shard on my palm earlier this morning, burned now that the painkillers I took had worn off.
“You’re staring.” His voice was rich, a tiny bit of Russian slipping out.
He had picked me right from the school’s parking lot, much to Kenzo’s disapproval. We drove around—more like the brooding soldier behind the wheel drove around for nearly 30 minutes, searching for the best bookshop, talking about anything we passed by.
Well I was the only one doing most of the talking.
He either nodded to what was barely a question, ignored me completely, hummed underneath his breath, or just stared at me for five seconds—probably wondering what kind of a lunatic he had picked up—then returned his gaze to the window, staring at heaven knew what.
“Is there a problem?” He snapped the book he was holding shut, keeping it in one hand. Then he lifted his forefinger, nudging gently at the thin-framed glasses perched on the delicate slope of his dainty nose.
The answer to his question though, wasn’t forthcoming. It felt like my brain had jammed and my tongue was too heavy to make a speech. Heat crawled up my cheeks as he continued to stare, waiting for a reply.
“There must be a problem.” He chose to draw conclusions from my silence. I couldn’t believe he was finding it hard to tell why I was staring. When you stared at someone this way, flushed red, it usually meant you found them attractive, right? So why couldn’t he tell? Why did he look so curious?
“N-no. No problem.” I said something, but wasn’t exactly sure. Maybe I spoke French or the little German I knew? I was too dazed, charmed, overwhelmed.
“Are you sure?” he asked, the furrow in his brows deepening, and I found it really cute.
Then he tilted his head to the side, almost robotically. “You’re…” he trailed off, as if careful not to say the wrong thing. “…red, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth.
I told him my name was Beth. It was the name I told everyone since we arrived in Scotland.
The name inked across all my legal documents.
Mother chose it when she erased Juliette, my birth name.
She didn’t even ask about my opinion, never cared if I liked the new name.
Beth. I had always wondered if it came from Elizabeth or Annabeth.
Or if it was simply…Beth. I disliked all possibilities.
Well, I thought I did until he called me Elizabeth. Until the name rolled off his tongue so carefully, like a secret, a quiet promise between him and I. And I fell in love.
“Are you okay?” he asked, genuinely concerned this time as I had zoned out again. Something raw and fervent roared beneath the depth of those amber hues.
Wait, he asked me a question right? I couldn’t remember if it needed an answer. I was lost in those eyes. A consuming fire that burnt even without a brush of his fingers, a sea of flame that was calling out to moths like me.
He wasn’t much of a talker, wasn’t good at emotions.
I could tell from that very encounter at the book signing.
But his eyes were a traitor to his silence.
Telling stories he wasn’t speaking of, a whole novel in a single glance.
And each word was a cupid’s arrow aiming straight for this reckless, na?ve heart of mine.
“Elizabeth.” I heard a snapping sound, like a jolt pulling me out of a daydream.
I had been staring, creeping the poor man out. But if he was disturbed, he didn’t show. He watched me still, curious…amazed, even, like I was a strange entity that crashed into the planet. And studying me was the most intriguing his moments had ever been.
He was looking at me like the way he had looked at every book he found interesting today.
He found me interesting.
That truth alone made my face burn more. He found me special.
How exactly did I get here? How did we even get here?
In what universe could I possibly be standing in the same room, exchanging oxygen like acquaintances do, with a man who exuded the type of elegance that only could have been believable if it was between the pages of a high fantasy or romance book?
“Are you sure you’re okay–”
“–Can I ask you a question, though?” I said, cutting him off.
“You’re already asking,” he noted, returning the book in his hand to the shelf.
“Oh…yeah,” I murmured, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I refused to say anything after that.
“So…” he urged, crossing over to the opposite shelf as another book seemed to have caught his eye. He was so indecisive. Like a kid who couldn’t decide which stuffed animal to sleep with, afraid the one left behind would feel lonely. He was too cute, I wanted to squeeze him.
“What’s the question?”
“Did you really reach out to me just for this…?” I made a vague gesture to the arrays of bookshelves caging us.
“You said you’d help me buy books,” he replied, his slender fingers flipping through the pages of the book he had picked up.
“Well, yeah,” I hesitated. “I did, but–”
“–You think I have an ulterior motive?” He leaned against the shelf, legs crossed by the ankle, eyes on me. Those beautiful eyes centered on…me.
“Well…yes. Kinda. This all seems so…strange.”
Pardon me if I was finding it really hard to believe all of this.
I mean, he had been buying books before he met me.
If not from bookstores but definitely from somewhere.
The main point was, he had been doing just fine figuring out his way in the literary word.
So what changed? Why did he suddenly need me as a book buying buddy?
Like he was new to this. Like he had never visited a store, never had to pick out books on his own.
He stared at me…for a very long time it started to feel like hours bleeding into days. He seemed to be calculating. He was always trying to calculate things, like he was afraid to make mistakes, forgetting mistakes made us human.
Then he released a deep sigh. “Well, I’m afraid you’re right. I do have an ulterior motive, Elizabeth.”
I knew it. This was too good to be true. Did they send him to come and annul my scholarship because my performance in math and science was just too bad and they couldn’t just ignore it anymore?
“I came to see you,” he said and my heart stilled.
“Y-you came to see me?” I jammed a finger at chest.
“I find you…interesting.” He took in a sharp breath, his gaze growing more intense, and I wasn’t sure if I could hold it without falling apart. “I liked talking to you then, I wanted to talk to you again.”
“Oh.”
“I actually spent days thinking of the best way to reach out.” He maintained a straight face, letting his eyes tell the story. “Telling you I needed help with books sounded rather…unbelievable? I ruled it out. But I couldn’t come up with a better option so I returned to the discarded one.”
“Um, w-wow?” My heart tugged and raced as if trying to outrun time. And I was overwhelmed by the weight of his though, innocent confession.
This man right here was no ordinary man. He held power in his hands like I held a pen in the classroom. He had the world at his feet, soldiers at his beck and call, wealth to last a million generations to come.
Who was I? A speck of dust clinging to his leather shoes.
But he found me interesting. He liked talking to me. He wanted to meet me…desperately.
“Is it…weird?” he asked, cautiously, almost afraid of my reply. “I had a million scenarios in my head on how my confession would turn out…and ninety-nine percent of them were really…bad.”
He liked me. Was I delusional? I didn’t know about delusions.
I was a girl who saw anything that looked like a whisper of affection and clung onto it like a lifeline.
This man right here was saying simple words, yet I heard poetry.
Maybe that was what starved girls do. They saw a crumb and turned it into a feast.
“Christ,” he breathed. “You think it’s weird.” There was a slight movement of his facial muscle. Not visible fear. Not tension, maybe a ghost of anxiety.
“It’s…cute,” I said quietly, softly. “You’re actually so…cute.” My smile turned into a chuckle, a reaction that made his face relax.
“So it’s not weird?” he asked again.
“No.” I shook my head. “It’s not weird.”
He nodded slowly and I saw it, though barely, like a dream; a gentle twitch of his lips, a light pink tint clinging to his cheeks.
Dear Aphrodite, he was a dream.
“Why don’t we finish up and grab coffee?” I asked, clearing my throat. I picked a random book from the shelf I was standing by, flipping it open.
“A coffee?” he asked.
“Yeah.” I nodded. “My favourite coffee shop has been closed down for a while. I don’t like the atmosphere of the new one I’ve been going to. But they make crazy lattes too.”
My back was to him as I searched the aisle for books I could suggest for him. We had been here for nearly 30 minutes and hadn’t been able to pick much. So far there was only one book in our cart.