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She blanches, and the way her eyes dart to the side makes me think I might have just stumbled into a winning argument.
“Fine,” she snaps after a moment. “Whatever, just get out.”
I should take this win and leave. That’s the smart thing to do after dodging a stray fucking missile. I should leave, except she’s still here...and now that I’ve already come this far. “I hear congratulations are in Order.”
She looks up sharply. “What did you say?”
“Congratulations?” I’m relieved when my voice sounds normal. Even slightly bored. “Or is that not the proper thing to say for an engagement? I can’t say I ever paid much attention to those etiquette classes.”
The color drains from her face, and her bottom lip trembles slightly as she seems to struggle for a response.
I’m about to continue. Maybe I’ll demand to know where Dane is, or ask if she knew this announcement was coming when I spoke to her yesterday on the steps.
Maybe I’ll ask her again what she’s doing hiding away from the party.
Or maybe I’ll ask if she knew I wanted her back then. If she knows now. I’ll say that I know we’d never have a moments peace from our families, and I know I fucked up and she has no reason to trust me, but if she wanted, I would still leave with her tonight and never look back.
But before I can speak, a voice down the hall makes my blood run cold. “I’ve been enjoying the Ardbeg myself, but I’m interested to try one of those new magically aged varieties.”
“Really?” a second voice replies. Male, and not unfamiliar exactly, but not someone I immediately recognize. “I can’t say I’m well versed enough to know the difference. I’m more of a wine guy.”
“Shit,” Etta mutters, the blood draining from her face. “They cannot see me talking to you.”
She darts away so fast I blink, and in an instant I can just see the hem of her dress disappearing into the room to her left.
I stare after her, my entire body humming. I know I should not want this woman. Not when her very existence seems designed to torture me. Not when her family are my enemies, and when she doesn’t want me, anyway.
But I’ve never done what was good for me, so why start now?
Without stopping to think, I race after her, just managing to slip inside as she tries to close the door. She gasps, surprised as I squeeze in beside her.
She’s done something to her hair tonight to make it large and fluffy, falling down her back in golden ringlets, and her eyes are large, dark and defined. I feel slightly guilty as my gaze shifts, falling down the curve over her neck to her chest, where her tits again are nearly spilling out of her dress. She never used to dress like this, and I imagine myself pushing her hair off her shoulder and leaning over to sink my teeth into the perfect skin of her breast. How she’d gasp, then wrap her slender fingers in my hair and let me pick her up and press her against the door.
“What the hell are you doing?” Etta hisses, her voice rising at the end.
I almost laugh. Helen is vicious; the warmonger, rather than the damsel.
“Hiding,” I say casually. “Same as you, apparently.”
I glance around, taking in the room for the first time.
It’s a library.
Of course it is. That feels poetic almost. Fitting, given I was in the library of our prep school when I first realized my obsessive hatred of Etta Capulet was really just an obsession.
I should have realized it much sooner than that. There were so many opportunities. So many times when my behavior was inexplicable, even to me, yet it took me years to piece it together.
The Capulet library isn’t nearly as vast as the one at Verona Valley Prep, but it’s still relatively large with high ceilings and dark, wood-paneled walls. Shelves cover nearly every exposed surface, and stand in rows in the center of the room, like an honest to gods public library. There are two leather chairs by the window, and though it’s dark, I would guess that during the day this room looks out on the huge garden along the side of the house. On the table beside one of the armchairs sits an ashtray full of gnome-made cigars, and underfoot, a worn and faded Norn-woven rug gives the space a homey look, and I can picture a young Etta sitting on the carpet, reading one of those old fairytale books she used to read when we were kids.
I wonder if she still has those somewhere. I bet she does. She doesn’t seem the type to throw out books.
Reaching into my pocket for my cloves, I stride over to the ashtray.
“No,” Etta whispers. “You can’t light that in here.”
“Can’t or shouldn’t?”
“Both.”
