The lord presses his lips together, and I suspect he’s reluctant to move on from the subject. To distract him, I provide him with a highly detailed update on my work in the library. I cover off the intricacies of the Dewey Decimal system and offer him a practical demonstration of how to apply archival-quality PVA glue to the spine of a damaged book. When that’s done, I moveon to fun facts aboutPride and Prejudice, fun facts about Jane Austen, and a few fun facts about me for good measure.
When it’s clear I’ve distracted him thoroughly, I decide to give him an opportunity to talk about himself for a while. It’s the right thing to do. Social norms, and all that.
“So,” I hear myself say in a slightly worrying saccharine tone, “what would you say is your favorite book, Lord Augustus?”
What?
It’s a perfectly normal question. It’s not overly personal or flirtatious at all.
Okay, fine, it is overly personal, but only if you’re a bookish sort. Then it’s one of the most personal questions you could ever ask someone, and there’s almost nothing on Earth that could provide a more detailed and bruising insight into a person’s psyche. But it’s clear from the state of the library that Lord Augustus is anything but a bookish person, so it’s fine.
In fact, I bet ten dollars he’s going to skirt the question. I bet he won’t answer, or he’ll vague-answer, or he’ll go with the safe, boring answer of a best-selling psychological thriller or murder mystery. Yes, that’s what I think he’ll do. And those kinds of books don’t tell you jack about anyone. Except that they’re painfully boring and lack imagination.
Lord Augustus ambles toward the shelves on the east side of the library. He moves past nonfiction, past fiction, and pauses in the children’s book section. I watch, eagle-eyed, as he trails a finger along one of the shelves.
He crouches, sitting on his haunches, and takes a book from the bottom shelf. Even from here, I can see at a glance what book he’s chosen.
My heart drops.
An unpretentious red cover. One dotted with hand-drawn white flowers, black block-lettered title text, and a simple yet distinctive outline of a bull.
My lungs cave and then fill in a rush.
If I were the kind of person to spend a lot of time thinking about the most perfect, beautiful, heartwarming book an alpha could possibly choose as their favorite, I wouldn’t have been able to come up with a better choice.
Okay, okay, I am the kind of person to give things like this some thought, but it’s been years since I have.
When I used to think it, the best, most pleasant outcome was always for the alpha in question to utter my favorite title, and for it to be something we shared. A common interest. A common love.
I thought that sharing a favorite book was the most romantic, sweetest thing an alpha could share with me.
I was wrong.
The sweetest, most heartwarming title an alpha could ever claim as their favorite is this book, the book Lord Augustus holds in his hands.
The Story of Ferdinandby Munro Leaf.
It’s a story about a Spanish bull with a gentle heart. A bull that’s different from other bulls. Where other bulls live to fight and butt heads, Ferdinand is a sensitive soul who refuses to fight even when provoked.
“My father used to readFerdinandto us when we were boys,” I tell the lord quietly. He looks up at me and half-smiles, half-nods. Even as a young boy, I remember thinking that my father was reading the story more for my alpha brothers than me. To send them a message, to plant a seed in their minds of the kind of men he hoped they’d become. “My brother Branson liked the book. He used to ask for it sometimes.” I chuckle softly. “But I’m pretty sure it went right over Wilder’s head.”
“What about you?” the lord says quietly. “What do you think of the story?”
Lord Augustus has risen. He’s standing upright now, holding the book in both hands. His face is neutral. There’s no tension around his mouth or his jaw. His eyes are dark, pupils inky black and heavy, dulled by what he does to keep others safe.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I say when I find my voice.
14
Jensen
LordAugustusiswaitingfor me near the stairs. His back is turned to me. His shoulders appear broader than usual in his suit. He seems larger than life, with a hand slipped casually in one pocket as he waits. He’s wearing a velvet dinner jacket, a white dress shirt, and black trousers. It’s burgundy, the jacket. Deep burgundy. So deep that it looks black except for when the light hits it. Then it glints a rich, luxurious claret that asks for a hand to reach out and stroke it.
His neck tenses when he hears me approach, posture straightening as he turns to greet me. He holds out a hand, palm facing up, and I place my hand in his as custom dictates. His grip is light as he folds my fingers at the knuckles and raises my hand to his nose.
He bows from the waist, inhaling deeply, letting his eyes flutter shut, despite the futility of the gesture.
The action shouldn’t affect me the way it does. It’s customary behavior. Tradition that’s been passed down throughgenerations. Old World manners in modern times. Old World manners on a mysterious man. A sweet man. A nice man whose favorite book isThe Story of Ferdinand.
