Page 10 of Cinder (MC Fables #2)

E lla

Houston, we have a problem.

And it comes in the form of a very muscular, very sexy biker with ice-blue eyes and a dangerous smile that is far more endearing than it should be.

I didn’t mean to get his attention.

And I admit I got a little carried away doing the tequila shots with him at the bar. Licking salt from his skin like I’d done it a million times before.

But Luca told me to blend in.

So I ran with it.

I wasn’t lying when I said I’d seen it in a movie once. And it seemed like a good idea at the time .

It’s not like I didn’t need the shot of liquid courage.

Because Lars is the kind of man who makes you look twice. And makes you wish you’d met under different circumstances.

He looks formidable. High cheekbones. Sharp jaw. All that ink.

He’s an avenging angel in a leather cut.

But there’s a kind of elegance to him, in the way he moves, like he could disappear in the blink of an eye.

Or have you pinned against the wall just as quick.

I think I’ve given him the slip, but the fact that he knows my name is a little concerning.

I force myself to focus so I can do what I came here for and remove the map Cheezy gave me from my jacket pocket.

When I’m sure I am free from the watchful eye of Lars the enforcer, I slip into the shadowy foyer of the clubhouse to study the map, turning it around and around until I’m looking at the correct bird’s eye view. Damn, Cheezy and his serial killer writing.

I know I’ve already mentioned three things about Cheezy but let me add a fourth.

He clearly doesn’t understand the severity of the situation we’re both in, because if he did, he wouldn’t have given me this shitty piece of paper with the crude map of the clubhouse interior scribbled on it.

He was supposed to have a detailed map of the interior, a computer-generated map.

Not something that looks like it’s been drawn by a toddler .

But I’ll make it work. Because the clock is ticking, and I want to get this over and done with before I get caught and all hell breaks loose.

When I think I’ve deciphered what direction I need to go, I move through the shadowy castle foyer and down a corridor with stone walls and high ceilings.

The noise of the party fades behind me as I make my way toward the first door on the right which is supposed to be the library.

Stopping to check if anyone is watching, I try the door handle and I’m surprised to find it unlocked.

Not believing my luck, I quickly slip inside before anyone can see me and close the heavy door behind me.

Turning around, my breath catches in my throat.

It’s the library all right.

And it’s magnificent.

Breathtaking.

I have to remind myself to breathe as I take it all in. The high ceilings, arched and ribbed like the bones of a cathedral. Shelves rising from the floor all the way to the top, their dark wood sagging under the weight of old books. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

Needle meet haystack.

Warm pools of lamplight spill over the space like honey, softening the edges of timeworn stone and shadow.

The smell hits me. Old paper and dust. Leather and wood polish. The faintest trace of wood smoke from the fireplace .

It’s nothing like the rest of the clubhouse. Nothing like the greasy laughter echoing through the halls and the drunken chaos in the bar.

I’ve heard rumors about this library. That Beast gifted it to Belle on their wedding day, but I don’t know if it’s true or if it’s the romantic grapevine of a town steeped in fairytales and gossip.

Despite it being a large room, it’s charming and cozy, and it makes you want to light a fire and curl up in front of it with one of the books.

But I’m aware time is ticking by and turn my attention to the closest bookshelf and start skimming. Rumors say the original recipe was written inside a book of flowers that belonged to the original alchemist for the club, so I start looking for any books written about flowers.

But as I run my fingers along the shelf, tracing spines with gold-embossed titles and cracked leather bindings, they’re not scientific flower books I’m looking at. They’re the classics. Frankenstein. Dracula. An early edition of Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

These books have to be worth thousands of dollars.

They make me think of my mom who was a rare book dealer before she met my father. She loved books with a passion, especially the old ones. Maybe that’s why I can feel her here with me now in this beautiful room dedicated to books.

Forcing the romantic notion out of my head, I focus on the task at hand, and I look for a book about flowers. But there doesn’t seem to be a lot of order to the shelves .

Distracted by Grimm’s Fairy Tales, I can’t help myself and pull it from the shelf. The cover is embossed with swirling vines and unusual flowers, faded to the color of old honey. The gilded title glimmers faintly in the center, half-rubbed away by time and the many hands it has passed through.

When I was a little girl, my mom used to read me fairy tales.

I used to curl up beside her and fall asleep listening to her sweet voice as she read Cinderella, Snow White, and Rapunzel.

Although they were the watered-down versions of the original stories, softened by Disney and less gruesome in their happily ever afters.

The Brothers Grimm versions aren’t so sweet.

I flip through the old pages that probably haven’t been open in decades, the scent of burned sugar and ash lifting with every page I turn.

I stop flicking when I come to Aschenputtel .

The German version of Cinderella. The one with no glass slipper, no fairy godmother.

Just blood and bones and a girl weeping into a hazel tree.

Sounds about right.

I snap it closed and put it back on the shelf. Beside it are rows and rows of gilded spines with names like Bronte. Poe. Wilde. And Chaucer.

How I’d love to curl up with one of these and read it from cover to cover.

I get so engrossed in the books, I don’t hear the door open.

“You get lost, little Firecracker?”

The voice comes from behind me.

I swing around, and standing in the doorway is Lars.