Page 22 of Whispers of Fire

“Yeah, I like to read, kind of an escape since I was a kid,” I say, my voice rough but tinged with a hint of something softer. I know I don’t look like an intellectual type with my cut and my bike, but she doesn’t seem surprised by it.

People aren’t always what they seem to be.

She nods with a small smile, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before she looks away, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

"Do you have any favorites?" she writes, her gaze flicking back to me expectantly. I clear my throat, scratching the back of my neck, trying to come up with titles she might like.

“‘ To Kill a Mockingbird ’ and ' On the Road. '” She furrows her brow, admitting she's never heard of them. It surprises me, but I guess not everyone's into the same kinda books.

"Guess that means I'll have to lend 'em to you sometime," I say, lifting one corner of my mouth, liking the thought of sharing something with her. But she doesn’t smile back, lowering her head she grabs the notebook. “I’m not allowed to read books from the outside world.”

I clench my jaw so fuckin’ tight I might break it.

The outside world?How the fuck did people manage to get such a hold on her?

I fucking hate that she’s not free to discover the world as she pleases. She's trapped in this twisted community, like a bird with clipped wings, unable to soar free. I swallow hard, trying to contain the fury buildin’ in me.

"That ain't right," I growl, my voice a low rumble that fills the room. Her eyes linger on me as if she was trying to tame the anger rising in my chest.

Removing the blanket from her body, she puts the mug down on the wood table and stands before me. I try not to gawk at her petite figure but my eyes keep staring at the shapes dancing under the fabric. Blushing, she circles the couch and walks to the bookshelves, turning her head exaggeratedly on the side to read the titles.

Fuckin’ adorable.

She’s looking for something. Letting her fingers drift on the wood of the shelf, she finds what she was looking for and inhales loudly. Even though I wish I could hear her voice, I fucking love hearing the small sounds she makes with her breath.

Makes me wonder how she would sound if she was laughin’.

Turning back to me, she hands me the book she chose, To kill A Mockingbird. I grab it with a small grin.

What does she want me to do with it?

Taking the pen back, she writes quickly.

“I’m not allowed to read it but perhaps you could read it for me?” Her gaze is full of hope and anticipation.

Damn, I could burn the world to the ground for those blue eyes.

The request she made, it's not something I've ever done before. Reading to someone, hell, it feels downright intimate. But there she stands before me, with those eyes that could make a man forget his own name. So I clear my throat, trying to shake off the nerves that gnaw at my insides like hungry wolves. I'm more accustomed to blood and torture than bedtime stories. I used to do it in the past with Jamie, but it seems so far away now.

I'm venturing into uncharted territory but as I look at her, standing there with hope shinin’ in those damn blue eyes, something inside me shifts. Maybe it's the way she managed to break through the tough exterior I've built around myself, or maybe it's just the sight of her vulnerability laid bare before me. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come.

"Yeah, sweetheart," I finally say, my voice rough. "I'll read it to you every damn day if that's what you want."

Because that’s the truth. I’d do that if she wants me to. And as I watch her smile, a warmth spreads through my chest like wildfire. She gives me the book before sitting back on the couch.

I clear my throat, flipping open the book to the first page. I begin to read, noticing her eyes never leaving mine. And with each word, I can feel the barriers between us crumbling away, replaced by a connection that defies logic and reason.

Maybe this ain't so bad after all—this whole reading to someone thing. I stop myself for a second to watch her, holding on to each word, eager to know what’s coming next.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was having a stroke from how hard my heart is pounding under my chest.

I reach the end of the chapter and I notice her grabbing one of the pillows and bringing it onto her stomach.

“Do you want me to carry on with the next chapter, Angel?” I ask her, kind of hoping she will say yes. A small smile appears on her face before disappearing as she shakes her head, looking at the bay window. The sun has risen now, and reality hits me hard. She's gotta get back before her folks catch her sneaking out in the dead of night.

“I have to go back before they notice,” she writes. I nod, trying to hide my disappointment. She searches my eyes as if she could read my soul.

“I loved it, the story, really,” I read on the paper sheet. I swallow hard, the lump in my throat making it tough to speak.

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