Chapter 50 A Novel Distraction
Bella
By the time we reach the castle gates, the sun has long since dipped behind the ridge. The sky bleeds into deep violet, the last streaks of gold catching on the snow. Every time our shoulders brush, the air seems to change, like the space between us doesn’t know what to do with itself. I pretend not to notice. He’s probably pretending too. When we finally step through the grand doors, the warmth hits me with that rush of fire and spice that always clings to the halls. My boots squeak faintly on the marble, which feels painfully loud in the quiet. Damien stops just inside, hands behind his back, posture all straight lines and command. And I… have no idea what to do. Part of me wants to bolt to my room, because that’s the logical, safe thing to do. The other part doesn’t want to move away from him at all, because every step back feels like it might hurt. And I refuse to be that girl, the one who can’t stand two minutes apart from a man. No. Absolutely not.
I clear my throat, breaking the silence. “Well. That was… an experience.”
He glances at me, one brow raised. “You mean the village or the dragons?”
“Both. Though at least the dragons had the decency to bow first.”
The faintest hint of a smile touches his mouth, there and gone again. We just… stand there. In the big, echoing entrance hall like two people who forgot how social interaction works.
I shift my weight. “Sooo…”
“Sooo,” he echoes.
Gods. We’re hopeless.
I force a smile, straightening my coat. “I think I’m going to head to the library before bed.”
His head tilts slightly. “At this hour?”
“Yes, at this hour.” I gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “You know — books, quiet, comforting solitude. I have an idea in mind, actually. I’m going to find something to read tonight.” What I don't tell him is that what I want to read is things like those books that broke me out of that tower. No, the primal, imprinting dragon man does not need to know about that.
The corner of his mouth lifts again. “What kind of book are you looking for?”
I wave a hand. “You know, the… emotional kind. Something...”
“Ah,” he says, voice low, amused. “Normal?”
“Yes. Very normal.”
There’s a heartbeat of silence before he says, “I’ll come with you.”
My brain short-circuits. “You’ll what?”
“I’ll accompany you.”
“Oh. Um. You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“So why…?”
He just looks at me, steady and quiet, and I realise he’s not going to explain. He doesn’t have to. I can already feel it — the faint ache that starts curling in my chest whenever he takes even half a step away. The bond. The magic. Whatever it is that ties us together.
I sigh. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to judge my book choices.”
“Would I?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. “You look like someone who silently judges people by their reading habits.”
He actually smiles this time. “Perhaps.”
We walk side by side through the halls. The torches flicker as we pass, throwing his shadow long across the stone walls. Every time he glances at me, I feel the warmth under my skin, that low hum that refuses to fade. When we reach the library doors, I half expect him to stop outside, but he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. He follows me in as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I sigh quietly. “You’re very good at making personal space feel optional.”
He looks around the room instead of answering, gaze tracing the shelves like he’s taking stock of every title. “I didn’t realise how much you like it here.”
“It’s my coping mechanism,” I say, heading straight for one of the lower shelves. “Some people drink. Some people sword-fight. I read until my brain stops spiralling.”
He nods, like he understands that better than he should. I trail my fingers along the spines until I reach the far end, where the fiction shelves start. He stays a few paces behind me, quiet but not distant, watching like I’m some mystery he’s trying to solve. It should be unnerving. It is unnerving. I pluck a book from the shelf at random. The Maid and the Midnight Prince. The cover is ridiculous — moonlight, roses, a woman swooning in the arms of a man with far too many buttons undone. Perfect.
“Found one,” I announce.
He steps closer, glancing at the cover. “That seems… dramatic.”
“That’s the point.” I open it and flip through a few pages. “I need something light and predictable. Preferably with a happy ending.”
“You think endings are predictable?”
“Not in real life,” I say, looking up at him. “That’s why I like them in stories.”
He studies me for a moment too long, then gestures toward the nearest table. “Shall we sit?”
“We?” I repeat. “You’re planning to stay?”
He inclines his head slightly. “If you don’t mind.”
I do mind. Sort of. Mostly because I was hoping to distract myself from thinking about him. Hard to do when he’s right there — all calm authority and quiet warmth and that scent of smoke and snow that shouldn’t be comforting but somehow is.
“Sure...” I say finally, walking over to the table and dropping into a chair. “But don’t blame me if I fall asleep mid-sentence,” I say, hoping to deter him, but of course, it doesn't.
“I won’t.” He says as he takes the chair opposite mine. The space between us feels smaller than it should. I open the book, pretending to read. My eyes scan the same line three times before I give up. He watches me over the top of the pages for a while, silent. It should feel heavy. It doesn’t. It just… is.
After a few minutes, I sigh and set the book down. “You’re not exactly helping the relaxation part, you know.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You just sitting there existing is distracting.”
One brow lifts slightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“I’ll still take it.”
I groan quietly, slumping in my chair. Eventually, I pick up the book again, opening to the first page, when he speaks again. It's the softest I've ever heard him. If there were even a whisper of wind, I wouldn't have heard him. "Would you read to me?"
Will I really read a steamy fairytale to the most dangerously attractive man I’ve ever met while pretending I’m totally fine? Gods help me, apparently I will.