Page 51 of Cinder
Fifteen thousand dollars will be enough for me and Lucretia to get away from Luca.
We’ll get new identities and disappear into oblivion. Somewhere warm, where they have three hundred days of sunshine, and sandy shores that dip into a crystal blue sea. We’ll probably have to look over our shoulders for the rest ofour lives. But it will be a hell of a lot better than being married to the men Luca would force us to marry. Lucretia would never survive it. Hell, I wouldn’t survive it.
In our new life, I’ll work in a shop or in a restaurant, or one of those cute cafés with tiny pastries in the front window, and when I have enough money, I will repay the Knights and tell them I’m sorry for stealing from them. That it was about survival.
And I mean it. Iamsorry for what I am about to do. I hate that I have to steal from them just so my sister and I can outwit our evil half-brother.
A giant part of me wishes I could confide in Lars.
Tell him the truth.
But I can’t bring war to the clubhouse doorstep.
Or risk Lucretia’s life.
So I’m going to steal this book, sell it for the cash I need for me and my sister to start again, and once we’re safely disappeared, I will contact Lars and tell him everything.
“How come every time I look for you, I find you in the library?”
Lars’s voice makes me jump.
Startled, I look up to see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. His big arms are folded, and his legs are crossed at the ankles like he’s been standing there for some time watching me.
“Not true. Earlier today you found me in the fireplace,” I joke, quickly returning the rare book to its place on the dusty shelf.
I’ll have to come back for it tomorrow.
Lars steps into the room, and I force myself to relax so I don’t arouse any suspicion.
Breathe.
He doesn’t know why you’re really here.
“You really like it in here, don’t you?” he says.
“Are you kidding? This room is incredible. When I die, this is what heaven will look like.”
The smile he gives me is warm and delicious.
“How was your first day?” he asks. “Mrs. V. hasn’t scared you off, has she?”
“Not through lack of trying.” I hold up my hands. “Is it possible to get blisters from peeling potatoes?”
He takes one of my hands, and the fresh contact of his touch sends a flare of heat through me.
“You’ll survive,” he says, studying my hand. He brushes his thumb across my palm, and a small tremble rolls along my skin, through my pelvis and straight between my legs.
My lips part.
Lifting my gaze from my palm, I meet his gaze.
“I should go,” I say, aware he is still holding my hand.
I lick my lips and his eyes zero in on it. “You could stay.”
His eyes are magnetic.
His touch is warm and inviting.
