Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sierra
T he bell above the door chimed softly as Connor guided me into Blackwood & Sage, his hand firmly planted on the small of my back.
The bookstore was exactly as he'd described, a magical labyrinth of floor-to-ceiling shelves, the air thick with the intoxicating scent of old paper, leather, and something vaguely herbal.
Sunlight streamed through stained glass windows, casting rainbow patterns across worn wooden floors.
After the intensity of the past few days, the video, the confrontation, that surreal call with Jerry, this felt like stepping into another world.
“You didn't tell me it was this beautiful,” I whispered, leaning into Connor's side, tucking myself beneath his arm as I took it all in. The shop seemed to go on forever, narrow aisles winding between towering bookcases that disappeared into shadowy corners.
Connor's lips brushed my hair, his arm sliding around my waist to pull me closer. "I thought you'd like it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that I felt more than heard. “They claim to have magic stones in the back room. Books first or rocks? ”
I hesitated, overwhelmed by options. “Books first. Definitely books.”
His fingers traced over my waist as he guided me deeper into the store. “Pick whatever you want, sweet girl. At least thirty or we're not leaving.”
I laughed, twisting to look up at him. “Thirty? Connor, that's a lot.”
“Thirty,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the warmth in his eyes. “Consider it making up for all the books that asshole threw away.”
The reminder of Jerry should have stung more than it did, but all I felt was a distant ache. Like pressing on a bruise that was finally fading. The conversation with him had changed something fundamental inside me. I'd faced my fear head-on and emerged stronger.
“Fine,” I conceded, pretending to be put out even as excitement tingled up inside me. “But you're carrying them.”
“Of course,” he promised, showing me a canvas tote bag emblazoned with the store's logo, a tree whose branches formed the shape of an open book. He must have planned this visit, right down to the bag.
We wandered through the aisles, Connor never more than a breath away.
When I paused to examine a collection of new releases, his chest pressed against my back, and his chin rested on my shoulder.
As we moved to a different section, his arm looped around my waist, locking me to his side.
Anyone watching might have thought we were simply a couple in love, and we were, but I knew it was more.
After everything that had happened, we needed this connection, this constant reassurance that we were safe.
“This one,” I breathed, pulling down a leather-bound collection of fairy tales, the cover embossed with silver vines that caught the light. “And this one.” A slim volume of filthy scenes followed, then another beautifully illustrated book.
Connor took each selection without comment, carefully placing them in the tote bag. His expression remained neutral, but I could see the satisfaction in his eyes as the pile grew, as if he was personally replacing every book Jerry had ever destroyed, which I suppose he was.
“Mrs. Graves?”
A soft voice broke through my browsing reverie, the name shocking me.
I turned to find an elderly woman with silver hair twisted into an elaborate braid, wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose.
Her flowing purple dress was dotted with embroidered moons and stars, and various crystals hung from chains around her neck.
"I thought that might be you. I'm Freya, the owner. Your… young man called ahead.”
I glanced up at Connor, who had a wide smirk on his chiseled face, his hand never leaving my waist. “He did?”
Freya smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Oh yes. He said you were a special customer who deserved the full Blackwood experience.
I've set aside some editions I thought you might like, some folklore collections, primarily. And…” She leaned in, “I opened the crystal room early.
Usually, we don't unlock it until noon, but your man here was quite persuasive.”
Warmth bloomed in my chest as I turned to Connor, who was examining a bookshelf with sudden intense interest, though the slight flush on his ears betrayed him.
“Thank you,” I told Freya, unable to keep the smile from my voice. “That's incredibly kind.”
“Not at all, dear. It's refreshing to see young people with an appreciation for proper books.” She cast an approving glance at Connor. “And proper manners. Most young men who come in here can barely be bothered to look up from their phones.”
As if on cue, Connor's phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting subtly before he slipped it back without answering. “We'll take our time," he told Freya. “Sierra has at least twenty more books to choose.”
Freya laughed, the sound like wind chimes in the quiet shop. “Well, in that case, I'll leave you to it. The rare collections are on the table by the front counter when you're ready. Just ring the bell if you need anything.” She drifted away, her dress swishing against the polished floors.
I turned back to Connor, my eyebrow raised as I peered up at him smugly. “Called ahead?”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering on my cheek. “I wanted it to be special.” His phone buzzed again, more insistently this time. Irritation flickered across his face. “I need to take this, keep browsing.”
I nodded, expecting him to step away for privacy, but he remained beside me, his hand still resting on my lower back as he answered.
“What?” His voice was clipped, impatient, a way he’d never talk to me.
I tried to focus on the bookshelves in front of me, running my fingers along the spines of various hardcover novels, but it was impossible not to hear Connor's side of the conversation.
“I don't care if it was messy.” He paused, listening. “And the footage?” Another pause. “Good. What did you do with the eyes?”
I froze, my hand hovering over a book I'd been about to pull down. The casual coldness in Connor's voice sent a chill down my spine. I turned to stare at him, wide-eyed, but he merely held my gaze with those dark eyes, if anything, slightly amused.
“Use acid for the rest,” he continued, as if discussing the weather rather than... whatever horrific thing I was hearing half of. “No, not there. Adrian's.”
He smirked at my expression, bending down to press a kiss to my forehead even as he kept talking.
My stomach twisted uncomfortably at his tone, but I forced myself to focus on the beautiful clothbound edition of priceless works I'd just discovered. By the time Connor ended his call, I'd already added three more books to our tote, which was starting to strain from his forearm.
“Was there a problem?” Connor asked after ending the call, his voice softening as he tucked his phone away. His thumb brushed my lower lip as he returned his full attention to me .
“What was that about?” I asked, somehow not feeling nervous to ask him.
Connor's eyes darkened, but not with anger. It was with something more complex, more intimate. “Nothing for you to worry about, sweet girl.” His hand came up to cup my cheek, his touch gentle despite the steel in his tone. “Just cleaning up loose ends.”
“But you said...” I couldn't bring myself to repeat his words about eyes and acid.
“I know what I said.” He studied my face, his expression unreadable. “Does it bother you?”
Did it? I should have been horrified. Terrified, even.
But as I searched my feelings, all I felt was a complicated tangle of emotions.
Concern, yes, but also a strange, guilty relief.
Was this about Jerry? Is that why the guys were with him yesterday?
He had tormented me for years, had broken pieces of me I was only now learning to repair.
“No problem at all,” I replied, holding up a rare illustrated edition of my favorite childhood fairy tales. “Just trying to decide if fifteen books are enough, or if you're really going to hold me to thirty.”
His laugh was warm and genuine as he pulled me against his side. “Thirty was the minimum. If you want fifty, they're yours.”
Just like that, he steered us back to browsing, as if we hadn't just had a half-conversation about what sounded like murder.
He guided me deeper into the maze of bookshelves, helping me refocus on the joy of being surrounded by stories instead of the chilling implications of the phone call.
We passed a young couple in one of the aisles, their heads bent together over a shared book.
The woman looked up as we approached, her gaze lingering on Connor’s massive form with obvious appreciation.
Quickly, Connor pulled me tighter against his side, his message clear.
The woman's eyes widened slightly before she quickly looked away, and I had to bite back a giggle.
“You're being obvious,” I murmured, selecting a beautifully bound copy of another work.
“Good,” he replied unapologetically, taking the heavy tome and adding it to our already bulging tote bag. He glanced at the couple, who were now studiously avoiding looking in our direction. “Thirteen. Keep going.”
We continued our exploration, eventually making our way to the rare books Freya had mentioned.
I gasped when I saw them. Leather-bound volumes with gilt-edged pages, some so old the bindings were cracked and worn soft with age.
One in particular caught my eye, a collection of obscure tales with hand-painted illustrations that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight.
“This one,” I breathed, carefully opening it to reveal delicate watercolor images of forests and fairies that seemed almost alive. “It's beautiful.”
Connor watched me, something soft and possessive in his gaze. “Add it to the bag.”
“But this one has to be expensive…”