My heart beats an angry rhythm, disharmonious with the lighthearted tempo of the song.
Why am I even considering these thoughts to begin with? It’s not like Elliot can ever mean anything to me. So what if I’ve had a few tender moments with him? So what if I imagined we may have been about to kiss in the rose courtyard? None of it matters. None. For he doesn’t value me but his wolf form. And once the curse is broken, I’ll never see him again. Certainly not as Elliot Rochester. He’ll be a wolf king, immortal, and brimming with whatever magic powers he had before. I’ll be but a flicker within an unhappy event in his long, endless life.
A lump rises in my throat as heat crawls up the back of my neck. The room suddenly feels too small and too warm, the music too loud, the sound of Elliot’s laughter grating on my ears. Without a parting word, I rise from the piano bench and leave the frivolity behind.
28
When I reach my room, I feel foolish in a way that has only one solution—literary distraction.
Pushing all thoughts of Elliot, Imogen, and ballroom dances out of my mind, I retrieve The Governess and the Earl from my bedside table and settle onto the bed, propping my back against a stack of pillows. I already finished the book yesterday, but considering my mind has been so distracted with work, schemes, and preparations, I’m sure there’s a lot I’ve missed. Besides, I almost always read books two or three times each.
The book has just the effect I was after, and soon the words swallow me into a made-up world. One where happy endings are real and love conquers all. It’s nonsense, and I know it. But right now, I just want to get lost there. Lost I become, following the governess’ journey meeting the handsome earl, a man who’s engaged to another woman. A woman far more beautiful and superior than the humble governess. At first, I thought this story would elicit too many feelings of discomfort, considering it hits so close to home, but knowing what I know about this series, how the governess always gets the man she loves, I’m soothed by it instead.
Hours pass. I don’t remember turning on the lights in my room, but I must have at some point, for I can see the words as daylight darkens to evening. I’m swept deep into my story, letting it override all sense of reality. It isn’t until I’m nearing the end and embroiled in a particularly heart-pounding scene—one where the governess and earl give in to their passions for the first time—that a sense of unease comes over me. I follow the words on the page, images playing across my mind’s eye, and realize I’ve made a mistake in my imaginings of the earl. I did this several times during my first read-through, but not this time. This time, I kept my vision of the earl accurate to the author’s description.
Until now.
The earl takes the governess’ face in his hands, eyes burning into hers. Garnet eyes. And instead of pale blond hair, the earl has brown hair touched with gold at the ends. I try to shake the image away and re-immerse myself in the scene. The earl touches his lips to the governess’ lips, then her arms wrap around his neck as she presses herself close to him. But it isn’t the red-headed governess in the earl’s arms. It’s me. And the earl isn’t the earl at all but Elliot.
I squeeze my eyes shut and return my imagined characters to their rightful places. Blond earl. Red-haired governess. Then I dive back in, my pulse racing as I read on. The earl pushes the governess against the wall, and she moans against his lips. I bring my fingers to my own lips as they curl into a wicked smile. Love scenes always make me feel so devious.
The earl lifts the governess in his strong arms, cradling her as he walks toward his bed. Well, I’m not sure Elliot could ever do that with me. Or could he? He walks well with his—
I slam the book shut, a blush boiling my cheeks. What the hell was that? Why the damn bloody roaring saintly hell was I considering whether Elliot—no, I cannot even let myself examine what I was thinking or why. Taking a few deep breaths, I fix the proper visions of the characters in my head and open my book again. It takes a few moments to find the right chapter and page, but when I do, I allow no stray thoughts as I pick back up where I left off.
The earl lays the governess gently on the bed, then leans down to reignite their kiss. She moans, arching against him, and I feel a sizzling warmth at the apex of my thighs. I steady my breathing as I read on, my eyes wide as the earl slides a hand beneath the governess’ skirt, caressing up her leg. Then he lowers himself over her, and their eyes lock. The governess reaches for the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer. Closer. They kiss again, their bodies moving against one another. She runs her hands through his hair, their brown strands—
I pause and blink a few times. No, not brown. Blond. The earl is blond. I return to the scene, but no matter how much I try, the earl is not blond, nor is he the earl at all. It’s Elliot. And the woman he’s preparing to make love to isn’t the crimson-haired governess but a girl with black hair—me.
With a frustrated groan, I close my book yet again and toss it to the side. Only now do I realize how warm I’ve become, sweat pooling beneath my armpits and behind my neck. I admit, it’s been months since I’ve had a lover…since Oswald…but reading love scenes rarely gets me this hot and bothered. There’s only one thing to do now. I need outside at once.
Hastily, I dress in my boots and cloak, then race to my door. Flinging it open, I nearly collide with a wall before I realize the wall is actually Elliot, standing before my doorway with his fist raised as if to knock. I startle and launch a step back. I can only hope he doesn’t see how my cheeks blaze as I look at him, guilt tightening my stomach. Can he see the sheen of sweat on my brow? Do my eyes confess the compromising positions I was imagining us in just moments before?
It takes all my will to burn the questions from my mind and act normal. “Elliot,” I say, my words far more breathless than I like, “what are you doing here?”
He lowers his fist and takes a step back. He’s dressed the way he was at dance practice, in his shirtsleeves and trousers, his prosthetic still in place. “I came to check on you. You left the dining hall so suddenly and I haven’t seen you since.”
“Check on me? Why would you need to check on me? There’s just…so much work to do. I couldn’t allow myself to sit idly by and watch you dance.” The last few words feel bitter on my tongue.
He looks me over. “Were you about to go outside?”
“Well, I…” I know what will happen if I say yes. He’ll offer to accompany me and I’ll have to stand close to him. And I cannot stand close to him right now. “I was, but I’ve changed my mind. I think I’ll stay in and go to bed early.”
I expect him to take his leave, but he only furrows his brow. As his gaze locks on mine, I can’t help but recall my scandalous imaginings of those eyes of his, inches from my own, his mouth pressing against my—
I avert my gaze, pursing my lips as a rush of desire heats my core.
“Something’s wrong,” he says, his voice a low growl, his posture visibly stiff. “What happened?”
His response takes me aback, and I realize I must remedy this at once. I need a lie. Fast. Glancing over my shoulder, my eyes land on my traitorous book. I let my expression fall when I return my gaze to his. “I’m out of reading material. I left all my books behind at the townhouse and have only had a single title to read since I’ve been here. It’s…very hard for me to wind down without a good book. That’s all it is. Nothing to worry about.”
His shoulders relax. “I didn’t realize you were such an avid reader. I’m sorry. I should have done this before.”
“Done what?”
He turns and waves at me to follow. “Come. It’s time you met my library.”
He says it with a scoff, but to me, his words are an enchantment, one I follow without a second thought. “The library,” I echo, my tone reverent. I remember mention of a library when he first gave a tour of the manor, but I’ve yet to see it for myself.
Elliot laughs. “It’s one of the cruelest jokes of the curse.”
I have no idea what that means,
but I follow him nonetheless, down the familiar halls and stairs. Then we reach a wing of the manor I’ve never entered, one I’m pretty sure is near the king’s private quarters. As we make our way down the hall, our pace slow and leisurely, I’m surprised to find it so clean. It seems the residents I’ve assigned cleaning duties to have taken their jobs to heart and are expanding far past the public areas we need for our scheme. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Elliot and his pack were beginning to take pride in this place.
The halls grow narrower, and I’m forced to walk a little closer to Elliot. That and the quiet of our surroundings has my awareness of him growing. We’re alone in a wing I’ve never been to, our shoulders brushing as we walk. I clear my throat. “So, how was your dance lesson?”
He glances at me with a wry grin. “How do you think? It was torture, like everything else in this scheme of yours.”
Despite his words, his tone is light. It’s enough to ease some of the tension roiling in my stomach. “Sounds like it was effective then.”
He shrugs. “I learned the gallopade, the waltz, and the polka. We tried to learn something called the quadrille and then the cotillion, but even with the help of some of my pack attempting to learn the dance with us, it ended in a mess.”
I try to imagine such a sight and almost wish I hadn’t missed it. I can hardly fathom how uncomfortable Gray and Blackbeard would be if they’d been requisitioned for the lesson. Group dances like the quadrille and cotillion are quite complex for novices to perform.
“Three dances should suffice,” I say. “That will give you plenty to have with Imogen, enough to make your intentions clear and for her to be swept away by you.” I force my lips into a curt smile while I say these words, but the twisting in my heart doesn’t seem to match.
Saving me from further conversation on the topic, Elliot stops outside a closed door. “Here we are.”
My pulse quickens with anticipation as he pushes open the door to reveal a dark room, then fumbles with something near the wall. A warm glow emanates from orbs of light hovering over sconces throughout the room, illuminating a modest space filled with several seating areas, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases interspersed by a few large windows. Each window hosts a padded seat, and everything in me begs to climb upon one with a book at once. I step farther into the room, turning in a circle to take in the vast number of books.
“My library,” Elliot says, tone somber as he stands with his hands clasped behind his back.
I meet his gaze with a wrinkled brow. “Why do you sound so displeased, Mr. Rochester?”
His jaw shifts side to side. “Every one of these books is written by a human.”
Some of my joy sinks to my toes, threatening to retreat altogether. “Humans. Those you so vehemently hate.”
He takes a few slow steps toward one of the bookcases. “These books are fiction, Gemma.”
“Oh, so you have a problem with fiction now too?”
His lips melt into a frown, eyes going unfocused as his tone becomes strained. “There’s just so much…feeling in these books. I don’t like the way my body responds to it.”
This surprises me and manages to lessen some of my indignation. I step closer to him. “Does that mean you’ve tried reading them?”
“I’ve been bored now and then,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.
“And how exactly did your body respond to what you read?” I grow suddenly hot, realizing how improper my question sounds, especially with the wicked fantasies I had about fictional earl-Elliot still fresh in my mind.
He, however, doesn’t seem to find anything lewd about it. “I feel things I don’t feel as a wolf. Books give me experiences I shouldn’t have, emotions that aren’t my own. They spell out words that manage to draw tears from my eyes, twist my heart, even though nothing is physically happening to me. It’s a human sorcery I don’t care to mess with.”
His answer both amuses and saddens me. “Elliot, that’s called empathy. It isn’t sorcery. Surely wolves—and unseelie fae, for that matter—have emotions.”
“Not like this. We feel passions driven by our instincts. But the pages in these books…” He shakes his head. “I cannot explain it, but they have a powerful effect on me.”
“That’s sort of the whole point,” I say. “That is why fiction exists. It takes us to places we’ll never go in real life, allows us to feel emotions and experiences we might not get the chance to have ourselves. It isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s a shame you don’t see fiction as the blessing it can be.”
“Blessing? How so?”
“Well, it’s true that books can make you feel things that may not be pleasant. Sad things, losses, grief. But they can make you feel happy things too. Pleasant endings and resolutions you’ll never have yourself.”
He studies me for a few quiet moments. “Is that why you love to read so much?”
As his eyes bore into me, I realize I’ve laid myself bare. Shown one of my most vulnerable truths. “Yes,” I whisper. “I read to experience resolutions I, myself, have never had.”
He walks over to me, his gaze warmer with every inch he closes between us. “Is it worth it?”
My heart hammers against my ribs at his proximity. Memories of the earl-Elliot return to the forefront of my mind, making my lips tingle. “Is what worth it?”
“Experiencing pain that is not your own. Feeling joy and love and a happy ending that’s over as soon as you close the book. Is it worth it? Or does it only make reality colder when you’re forced to return to it? Would it not be better to feel nothing at all?”
I swallow hard. Why do I get the feeling there’s a layer to this question, with something lying beneath his words that I don’t quite understand? Whatever the case, I can only give him my truth. “Yes, it’s worth it. To feel nothing is not a life worth living. Yes, it hurts to return to the mundane after being swept away in a beautiful fantasy, but at least for a time, that fantasy was mine. It doesn’t matter that it wasn’t real, nor could ever be.”
“It can never be real, can it?”
I study his face, puzzling over his words. I have no idea what weight the question bears for him, but for me, it carries everything I’ve given up on—the belief that romance is true and men’s hearts aren’t fickle. A world where I’m not scorned by friends, and the people I love stand by my side. A life where I’m seen for who I am, not for who society wants me to be. The chance to be free. As I think it, I realize maybe it could be true. Maybe I do still have hope. Isn’t that why I made this bargain? Why I’m planning on moving back to Isola? If I can believe it’s possible to create the independence I need to free myself from social constructs…then could I learn to believe the rest could be true too? Could I…believe in love again?
It’s a dangerous thought, one I’m not yet ready to face.
Elliot watches me, awaiting an answer to his question. Again, I get that feeling there’s a layer to his words that I can’t see. One that feels both firm and fragile at the same time. One that—if I choose to unearth it—there will be no burying it back again.
So instead of facing it, I do something I rarely do in front of him. I put on my false persona.
With a casual shrug and a forced smile, I say, “Who’s to say what can or can’t be real? Now, show me which books you’ve attempted to read.”
29
I feel much lighter as I return to my room with a new book in my hands. After Elliot showed me the few titles he’d tried to read, he left me alone in the library to enjoy myself. I assessed each of the four books he’d pointed out, and settled on the one with the most well-worn spine. Even though the wear of the book could be attributed to the manor’s previous owner, I wanted to select the one Elliot has seemingly read the most.
Back in my room, I climb under the covers and turn to the first page. I enter the story, finding it very unlike what I normally read. There seems to be no pulse-pounding romance, no handsome hero, no heated scandal, whi
ch should help save my sanity for the remainder of the night. Instead, I find a bittersweet tale of an orphaned boy who meets an outcast street dog, and the bond that develops between them. I read late into the night, finding myself laughing and crying in equal measure. At the end, the dog saves the boy’s life at the expense of his own, and I’m left a sobbing mess.
With the book clutched against my chest, I turn off the lights and burrow beneath my blankets, feeling a deep throb in my heart that’s both sharp and warm at once. No wonder Elliot hates books after reading this one. The books I read have happy endings, not…whatever this is. Then again, I could never wish to erase what this story has given me, for alongside loss came growth and love and friendship. Maybe Elliot was right. Maybe books are a strange form of human sorcery. For how else can a story feel so satisfying and agonizing at the same time?
I hug the book tighter, breathing in the scent of its pages—the classic paper smell mingled with another aroma of earth and pine, one that’s becoming increasingly familiar and can only be described as Elliot—and a calming peace falls over me. Sleep begins to tug at the corners of my consciousness, bringing with it an echo of the king’s earlier question. Is it worth it?
My answer is the same as it was before. Yes, Elliot. It’s worth it.
The day of the ball arrives, and I’m thrown into a flurry of activity no sooner than the sun rises. Just like with the dinner, we’ve hired staff for the day, and I set about instructing them in their proper places and duties. Foxglove arrives to put some final touches on the ballroom, bringing with him Ember and a violinist he’s hired to accompany my friend as our modest orchestra for tonight’s music. Amelie comes shortly after to ensure Elliot has no issues with the outfit she picked out for him. Elliot himself is nowhere to be seen, however, and I can’t blame him. With the manor thrown into such chaos as the day draws closer to dusk, I too would rather be away somewhere in a quiet room. But as steward, management of tonight’s ball is my responsibility. There will be no breaks for me. No hiding.
Curse of the Wolf King: A Beauty and the Beast Retelling (Entangled with Fae) Page 21