EIGHT
SOPHIA
Once I’m dressed in the fresh clothes he left for me, I wander through the halls until I find the conservatory. He’s sitting there, half-buried in a book, but the heaviness on his face makes it look like he’s carrying the weight of the world.
He notices me watching him and quickly shuts the book, standing a little too fast. “I’ve got work to do,” he mutters. “I should get to it.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed about reading,” I say, stepping a little closer.
He doesn’t respond to that. Just nods slightly, shifting back into business mode. “You’ll need something to keep yourself occupied. I’ve got calls to make. Marcella will take care of you for now.”
I turn toward the woman approaching. Mid-fifties, kind eyes, neatly dressed. She gives him a respectful nod as he passes, then looks at me with a soft smile.
“What can I get you, Miss Thompson? Hungry?”
“All I really need is somewhere quiet to read,” I say. Books are the only thing that’ll settle my mind right now.
“Of course, ma’am. The library will be just what you need.”
She walks me down a hallway and opens a big set of double doors. The second I step inside, I stop and stare.
The library is huge—like, cathedral huge. The ceiling is high above my head, and every wall is covered with shelves full of books. So many colors, so many textures—it’s overwhelming, in the best way.
The shelves are made from dark wood, shining under the warm light of the chandeliers hanging above. It makes the whole room feel cozy, even though it’s massive.
Right in the middle of the room, a fancy spiral staircase twists upward, leading to another floor full of even more books. The air smells like old paper, leather, and that special kind of musty warmth you only find in libraries that have been around for decades. Honestly, it’s like my favorite bookstore back home—just a thousand times better.
Soft Persian rugs cover the floors, their detailed patterns adding to the charm. Big armchairs and comfy leather couches are spread out across the space, like they’re inviting people to stay a while.
By one of the tall windows, I spot a little oak table with a brass lamp on it, giving off just enough light to read by.
I find a spot in the corner where I can see almost the whole room. It’s peaceful, beautiful. But even with all this, I can’t stop thinking about Luca. No matter how calm this room feels, his face stays in my mind like a ghost.
He has a library like this, but he chooses to read in the conservatory?
It takes me forever to pick a book, but when I do, I finally start to relax and lose myself in the story.
Hours later, Luca walks in. I don’t have to look—I feel the change in the air the moment he steps inside.
I glance up, and there he is, looking like he belongs in a room like this. “Getting comfortable?” he asks as he walks toward me.
“This place is clean, quiet, and full of books,” I say. “How could I not love it?”
He gives a small nod, a hint of a smile on his face. “I like things neat,” he says.
“So why don’t you read in here?”
“I do. You’re sitting in my usual chair,” he says. “But I had some calls to make. The signal’s bad in this room.”
“Ah. Makes sense.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then. The wedding dress should be arriving soon. I’ll let you know when it gets here.”
“Do we really have to get married?” I ask quietly. The words feel heavy in my mouth.
“You keep lying to yourself, acting like you don’t want this,” he says. “But I see through that. You’ll be with me, and I’ll keep you safe.”
“Why do you care what happens to me?” My voice cracks a little. “You called me broken. I don’t have a job. No plans. Nothing special to offer. Why does any of this matter to you?”
“I told you. I admire you. You care about your sister enough to stay here, even knowing what I am. You cared about those women we saved. You have a good heart—better than mine. People like you deserve protection.”
“You don’t care about good people. You care about power. That’s what this is about, right? BeatingBriarwood. Controlling me.”
“I got your sister a good doctor. I let your dad live. Was that just about power?”
“You wanted to impress me. Keep me close. Control me.”
“You say you don’t want control, but everything about you says you want to feel safe. I can give you that—for the rest of your life.”
I shake my head. “You said this was only untilBriarwood is dealt with.”
“Is that really what you want?” he asks, stepping closer. His voice is low now. “Or are you wondering what it would feel like if I kissed you? If you let go and found out who you really are with someone?”
“So all this—you rescuing me, the marriage—it's just because you want to sleep with me?” I ask, my voice tight.
He doesn’t flinch. “You’re telling me you don’t want me to fuck you?” His tone is low and calm, almost amused. “Because I heard you in the shower, Sophia. Heard you say my name. Heard you moan when you came.”
My breath catches. I go still. “You were listening?” I demand, anger rising in my chest. “That was private. You had no right.”
He shrugs, completely unbothered. “It’s my house. I thought something was wrong—I heard a sound.” Then he steps closer, and I can feel his heat. “But it wasn’t pain, was it? Be honest. You want me. I could have you begging in minutes. Doesn’t that tempt you?”
“No.” The word barely comes out, soft and shaky. I look down, shoulders slumping under the weight of a lie I can’t even convince myself of. “I’m fine on my own.”
He lifts my chin with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I used to tell myself that, too,” he says quietly. “That I didn’t need anyone. That I was better alone. But we both know that’s bullshit. Don’t we?”
I can’t answer. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand.
“Your OCD’s worse, isn’t it?” he asks. “It’s not just about habits. It’s pressure. All of it sitting on your chest. You look after everyone else, but who’s ever looked after you?”
Still, I say nothing. Because he’s not wrong.
“I’m not some saint, Sophia,” he says, stepping in just enough for his voice to drop. “I’ve never claimed to be good. But I am strong. I can give you something real. I can protect you. Keep you safe from everything—including yourself.”
He pauses, eyes dark. “Just say it. Say you want me. Stop pretending. You’ll feel better once you stop running.”
I want to say yes. Part of me aches to let go and lean into him. But I can't. I don't know how.
“No,” I whisper again, even though it’s killing me inside.
His jaw tightens. His whole energy shifts.
“Fine,” he says coldly. “You want to play that game? We’ll play it your way.”