I pushed the library door open and let her slip inside first.
The room hit us with the scent of old paper and polished cedar.No dust, no neglect — the cleaning staff kept this place immaculate, even though I barely set foot in it.
She stopped dead center and looked around like she’d stepped into a cathedral.And then she walked toward the shelves.Slow.Reverent.
Her fingers brushed the spines — light, trembling touches — as if each book might burn her if she pressed too hard.
I leaned against the doorway, my arms crossed, trying not to stare like a fucking idiot.
She trailed her fingertips over titles.Italian classics.Brutal histories.A few ancient leather-bound volumes no one had touched in years.
Then she pulled down a book, opened it carefully, and lifted it to her face.She inhaled.And I swore something in me snapped.
I wanted that breath.I wanted to be the air she dragged into her lungs.I wanted to be close enough to feel her tremble.I wanted?—
Fuck.
She lowered the book, her voice small.“It smells like… time.”
I didn’t know why that was the thing that made my pulse stutter.I stepped further inside.She stiffened, sensing me even with her back turned.
“You can stay in here as long as you want,” I told her.“No one will bother you.”
She glanced over her shoulder.“…Not even you?”
My breath halted.Her eyes held something raw.Something accusing yet curious.
I held her gaze.“Not unless you want me to.”
Her throat bobbed.She looked away fast, hugging the book to her chest like a shield.The room filled with her silence.And my restraint.
She sank into one of the armchairs, curling her feet beneath her.I stayed standing a moment longer, watching her settle, watching her breath even out, watching her finally look… almost safe.Almost.
I forced myself to step back, my hand on the door handle.
“If you need anything, call for me.”
I closedthe door behind me and stood there, my hand still on the handle, my forehead resting against the wood like I was trying to hold my skull together.My pulse was out of control — heavy and uneven.
I’d bled out on warehouse floors and stayed calmer than this.
Across the hall, I heard Marcello laughing at something Gianni said.Alessio shuffled cards.Someone poured more whiskey.The normal hum of men who’d stared death in the face too many times to tremble at it.
And me?I was trembling at a twenty-two-year-old girl who smelled old books and breathed like she was afraid her lungs weren’t hers anymore.Pathetic.
I pushed off the door.The hallway was too hot.I yanked at my collar even though my shirt wasn’t tight.I headed back toward the living room.The guys kept playing cards, but all three pairs of eyes cut to me the second I entered.
Marcello smirked.“You look like somebody set your suit on fire.”
I ignored him.
Gianni raised a brow.“She okay?”
“Fine,” I grunted.
Alessio grinned — way too fucking pleased with himself.“She’s real pretty.”
Something inside me snapped.“Don’t.”