Page 36 of The Beast of Ashwood Manor

“Very cozy in here,” I said, setting the tray on the table.

“It is.” Cale sat down and took up a bite of potatoes from his plate. “Mmm, very good. Royce is a good cook.”

“He seems to enjoy it. I’m glad he does.” I cut off a piece of meat and ate it slowly.

“So, what is it you like to do up in your room?” Cale asked.

I was a bit taken aback by his question, but I answered, “I sleep, eat, write.”

He perked up at that. “What do you write?”

Don’t tell him. He’s prying.“Nothing.”

“Okay.” He chuckled. “So, you stay up in your tower and write . . . nothing?”

“I write things.”

“You just don’t want to share.”

Sighing, I looked at him. “You’re right, I don’t. It’s personal. But I write poems. Sometimes stories.”

I thought he would laugh at such an admission, but instead, his face lit up. “I hope I can do that one day.”

“You will, Cale. You can do it now. You don’t have to know how to write. Poetry is just an expression of words.” I thought of my father, whose love of poetry had flowed to me, and a pang hit my chest. He’d been the one who read to me as a child, and most of the books he’d read had been full of poetry.

After we ate, we sat in the chairs by the fire. When Cale tilted his head in the dim light, I could see the smooth contour of his neck.

Damn.

“Do you want to try and recite something?” I asked, looking away. “If you have something to express, just say it. You don’t have to write it.”

“So, you mean a song?”

“Isn’t that what poetry is? Songs, laments.” I nodded at him. “Go ahead. Try it with something you like”—I looked back at the window—“such as the rain.”

“Hmm.” Cale stopped and looked up, and in the silence of the room, I could hear the rain pounding on the roof.

He closed his eyes and listened. Then he opened his mouth and said, “I love the rain. It smells like sky. And when it pours, I . . . sometimes cry.” He looked up at me and shrugged.

I smiled, my chin propped in my hand. “That’s poetry.”

He shook his head. “It was silly.”

“No, it wasn’t. I enjoyed it. Very much.”

“How do I know you’re not just saying that to make me feel better?”

“Because I don’t often compliment people for their words. I’d like to write that one down.”

Cale rubbed his neck. “If you want.”

“So, does it make you do that? Cry, that is?”

“Well, I find the rain comforting. On cold nights like this, I like to curl up in a blanket and just watch it until I fall asleep. Other times, I gaze at it and daydream. But sometimes . . . it just makes me sad.”

Cale and I were alike in many ways, but that was only on the surface. There was still much about him that I didn’t know. He was innocent and naive, much more so than Jared, but this whole thing was very similar to what Jared had done to pursue me. And before, everyone had watched our love bud in awe, hopeful that it would break the curse. Now, they stood back and gossiped.

After my outburst about the table, I figured they’d all given up hope. Their fire died. They no longer cared. But they did care about Cale, it seemed.

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