Page 64 of Firethorne

“Do whatever the fuck you want. I don’t care.” I sat back into the cushions of the sofa, avoiding his gaze as I huffed and folded my arms over my chest.

“Aren’t you even a little bit curious about what’s in here?” he asked.

“No.”

“Fine.” He tried to act like he didn’t care, but within a few seconds he was sitting forward, ripping the parcel tape off the box he’d brought, with contents he already knew about. “I guess I’ll open this fucking box myself then.”

He opened the box, stared up at me, and when I didn’t make any effort to look inside, he huffed, then pushed the box across the table towards me.

“At least take a look. It won’t fucking bite.”

“Are you sure about that?” I shot back. “You do have a history of giving me fucked up shit.”

“That isn’t all I’ve done for you,” he lowered his head, and I could feel the heat of his stare burning into me, willing me to look his way. “But this might help.”

“I can do without your kind of help,” I hissed, but I made the mistake of turning my head and glaring back at him, and as I did, the contents of the box caught my eye. I stilled and then instinctively leaned forward. I couldn’t help it. He’d found my Achilles heel.

Books.

He’d brought me books.

Despite how awful everything was, I couldn’t deny that seeing them made me feel something. A flicker in my fractured, damaged heart. A glimmer of hope, maybe?

I held in my gasp as I saw copies of Jane Austen, The Brontes, Maya Angelou, Sylvia Plath, Margaret Atwood; the list went on and on.

I picked up a copy of Jane Eyre and quirked my brow.

“Are you trying to give me another subliminal message? Is there a mysterious wife hidden in your attic?”

He stood up and grinned back at me as his six-foot frame towered over me.

“No. There’s no message.”

But I knew there was. There had to be. There was always a message. He’d said so himself.

He’d given me books that were all written by women. Strong, powerful women telling strong, powerful stories. These were books to make a woman feel empowered. I couldn’t lie. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever given me.

But I still hated him.

“Thank you,” I said begrudgingly.

He shrugged, acting like it was nothing.

“I know you have the TV, but you’re a reader, like me. I wanted to give you something to help you escape, just for a littlewhile.” He cleared his throat and added, “I wasn’t sure what you’d already read. If there’s anything specific you’d like, I can bring that with me tomorrow.”

“These are perfect,” I replied. “Even the ones I have read, I’ll happily read again. It’s so... thoughtful.” I managed to give him a tight smile, despite everything. “Thank you.”

We sat for a moment with an emotionally charged silence hanging between us. And then, my stomach dropped and my heart splintered in fear when I heard a knock at the front door.

Someone was here.

What the fuck was about to happen?

Was this Firethorne?

My head shot up, desperate eyes finding Damien to gauge his reaction.

He was chilled, and he gave me a wry smile as he stood up and strode over to the door, a door that only he could open.