Page 128 of Rage

Books are magick.

The snap of wood in the hearth startles him, and he glances up, only to find he’s no longer alone.

She stands in the doorway, one shoulder pressing into the frame. The firelight softens her beastly form, making the glint of her golden eyes less predatory and more contemplative. She doesn’t speak; she just watches him, her presence both imposing and oddly comforting.

“You like books?” she asks or states, her tone is unreadable.

Steele sits up straighter, instinctively bristling at being caught in a rare moment of peace.

“I do,” he says simply, closing the book but keeping a finger in its spine. “They’re one of the few places a man like me can escape.”

There’s a twitch to her lips—not quite a smile, but not entirely devoid of amusement. She steps into the room, her clawed feet making little noise on the polished floor. “Escape from what?”

Thick, bushy brows raise to his hairline. “From people like you.”

There’s a flicker in her expression—hurt? No, it’s too brief to be certain. “And yet, here you are,” she replies, moving closer. “In my library. Reading my books.”

Glancing down at the large book in his lap, he strokes its worn cover. “They’re the only things here that don’t seem to want to kill me.”

The laugh she cradles is low and bitter. “You assume much, warrior. Not everything in this manor is your enemy.”

He tilts his head, studying her. “Are you saying you’re not my enemy?”

The claws at her side twitch, and for a moment, she looks away as if she doesn’t trust herself to answer. Instead, she changes the subject. “You’ve chosen that one.”

Following her gaze to the book, he says, “A classic,” trying to sound nonchalant.

“It was one of her favorites,” she murmurs, almost too softly.

Steele stiffens. “The woman in the painting?”

She nods, her gaze distant, as if caught between memory and regret. “She believed books held answers even when the world didn’t. I think that’s why she…why I…” She stops, her voice catching,

“You miss her,” he says, surprising even himself with the gentleness in his tone.

Her head snaps toward him, her eyes narrowing. “Don’t presume to know me.”

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he leans back in his chair. “I’m not. But I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

The room grows quieter, and the fire’s crackle fills the space between them. She studies him for a long moment, her beastly features softening, the sharp edges dulled by something he can’t quite name.

“And what did you do with that loss?” she asks, her voice like a ribbon of silk, soft to the touch, but if you turn it on its side, it’ll slice you to the bone.

He swallows hard, gripping the book tighter. “I carried it. Still do. Some weights never leave. They’re like boulders that stack inside you, making moving hard.”

For the first time, her condemning gaze doesn’t pierce him. Instead, it rests on him, heavy with an understanding that unnerves him like a kick to the ribs—winding him. Chest deflating.

“You surprise me,” she says finally.

“And you terrify me,” he admits.

Her lips curve—an almost smile, fleeting but real. “Good.”

But as she turns to leave, he calls after her. “Does that mean you’re not my enemy?”

She pauses in the doorway, her clawed hand on the frame. Her answer, when it comes, is cryptic and laced with something unspoken. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

“Reverie,” he calls the name he’d heard a portrait whisper late one night while exploring.

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