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These were Cyrus’ notes.
His internal commentary on a notoriously ruthless psyche ranged from “but is he wrong?” to “this is why the world is fucked.” I thumbed through the pages until I found one nearly free of scribbles—just an underline beneath Love endures by a bond which men, being scoundrels, may break whenever it serves their advantage to do so; but fear is supported by the dread of pain, which is ever present.
He’d circled the last sentence, and I straightened. What a cynical, very Reagan way of viewing the world.
Next came Nietzsche, who Cyrus seemed to agree with more often than not based on the introduction of highlighter, though I stopped flipping through on a few pages where that messy scrawl filled the margins.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I tugged down the line until an irritable Carr delivered the books from my office. One by one, they’d been piling up in my life, and as I thumbed through history and philosophy, I realized Cyrus had dog-eared corresponding pages, leaving notes in one that tied to another. Where I had my stringboard, Cyrus had his books.
It felt a lot like stumbling across a blueprint for his psyche. Miraculous, how much there was to learn in the books someone folded into their soul.
And he’d…
He’d been setting them in places he knew I’d see them—have to move them.
Finally, my fingers skimmed over the first novel that appeared in my office—another classic, Persuasion by Jane Austen.
Personally, Austen was always a little hard for me to follow—her words as dry as academics. But Cyrus read textbooks for fun, so I guess it wasn’t surprising he’d love Austen too. There were notably fewer comments in this one, and almost no highlights.
In the second-to-last chapter, where Wentworth hastily scrawled a letter to Anne, harsh underlines cut through the ink.
“I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.”
The last sentence was underlined twice. Beside it, he’d written one word: my name.
Half agony. Half hope.
Fuck me, if that wasn’t the truth. A sudden burning at the bridge of my nose had me rubbing my palms against my eyes and over my forehead. I leaned back in the armchair, tossing a throw over my arms as I kicked my feet up, and turned back to the beginning.
“Freya.”
I blinked, swallowing thickly as I realized night had robbed me of the evening I’d planned. Nobody had bothered me since we’d returned. After a precautionary sweep of the room, I forced myself to meet the citrine eyes glimmering in the low lamplight.
“What are you doing?”
“Well, I was sleeping, jackass.” It would’ve landed better if I didn’t sound like the Sahara had moved into my throat and one of his books wasn’t still in my lap. His lips twitched, eyes softening with something dangerously close to affection.
“I mean what are you doing here, smart ass.”
“What’s it look like? Watching you.”
“With your eyes closed?”
“Name one motherfucker that’s gonna get past Carr without waking me.”
“Is he—”
“Fine,” I cut in quickly, nodding as my boots hit the ground. “Jo patched him up pretty good, but I guess Atreus finished the job.” I smirked wickedly. “He was not happy about it.”
Cyrus’ brows pinched, but he said nothing, just nodded before finally grunting, “Good. Glad he’s alright.”
“You slept,” I blurted, for fear the topic would erase any hint of progress we’d made.
“Very observant.”
“You look like a spatchcocked pheasant.”
A laugh burst out of him, apparently taking us both by surprise as a hesitant smile threatened my lips and his eyes rounded before he dropped them. He rolled his neck in a way that said it was far stiffer than I’d like it to be.
