Page 43 of Mark Me

“Sure, I could use a break from all this.” She waves a hand at the labyrinth of shelves, and we start walking side by side out of the library.

The brisk air hits us as we step outside and make our way to the Academy café. It’s a small place, but it’s warm and smells like roasted beans and freshly baked pastries—a sharp difference from the musty scent of the library.

We order our coffees and grab a corner table awayfrom the late afternoon rush. The steam from the cups blurs the world around us, and for a moment, it’s just us and our shared love for words.

“Hit me with your top three books.”

“Only three?” I joke. “That’s like asking a parent to pick their favourite child.”

“Ouch, that sounds like it has backstory.”

Snorting and nearly choking on the sip of coffee, I shake my head. “Only child. You?”

I already know. I know most superficial things about her. I’m going to use this time to dig deeper so that when I drive my cock into her pussy and the words, ‘I love you’ tumble from my lips, I mean them with every part of my soul.

“Yep. Kind of a lonely upbringing. I’m sure you’ve heard the tales.”

Frowning, as I wasn’t expecting that dark of an opener, it turns to a warm flutter that she felt she could open up that quickly to me.

“I have, but that is a topic for another time, if you decide you want to speak more on it. Right now, you want my top three books, right?”

The option is laid bare for her to decide which way she wants to swing.

“Right.”

“’1984’, ‘Crime and Punishment’, and ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’. What about you?”

“Nice choices,” she nods approvingly. “And quick on the draw. I like that. For me, it’s ‘Wuthering Heights’, ‘The Bell Jar’, and ‘Pride and Prejudice’.”

“Classics with strong characters and even stronger emotions,” I observe. “I should have guessed.”

“Guilty as charged.” She takes a sip from her cup, her gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I actually want to write something one day. Something real, you know? That speaks to people.”

My heart thumps at this piece of her she has shared.

I lean forward, eager to hear more. “What kind of story?”

“Something raw that dives into human struggles and resilience,” she confides, her fingers tapping a rhythm on the table.

“Sounds powerful. You’ve got the unique perspective, I guess,” I venture cautiously, dodging artfully back into her upbringing.

“You could say that.”

“I have no doubt you’ll inspire.”

“Thanks, Ben.” A blush creeps into her cheeks, and she gives me a shy smile. “And what about you? Any secret aspirations?”

Trying not to choke on the word ‘secret’, I laugh dryly. “Yeah, I’ve thought about writing, too. Maybe something philosophical, exploring the nature of choice and freedom.”

“Then you’re halfway there already.” She points at me with a flourish. “Just need to put pen to paper. Or fingers to keyboard.” She giggles again, and it’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever heard. A far cry from the frail, unconscious woman we found on the vergeof losing her entire being to some fucking prick who needs his dick chopped off.

“Here’s to future bestsellers and the fantastic stories we’ll tell.”

“Cheers to that.”

Our laughter mingles with the clatter of the café, and for a moment, the darkness that usually clings to me feels a little lighter, and I want to keep talking to her, picking her brains on what makes her tick and what drives her.

“Have you read ‘The Night Circus’?” I ask as our conversation lingers on our favourite reads. “It’s like the author paints with words.”

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