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22
BENEDICT
Stalking the aisles, I shadow her every move. She is pensive, strolling through the stacks, wandering as if in deep thought. She has no idea I’m even here, as I’m pretty sure she had no clue I was in her English Lit class, either. Usually, I sit at the back or skip it, knowing I’ll ace it regardless. My mind works on a different level. It ‘gets’ poetry, prose, novels and plays, just like it is easy for me to grasp Philosophy. Okay, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that both my affluent and noble parents are in these fields, so it’s a given I would have some of their brains, but still, it takes more than showing up to really understand the subjects.
Ever doesn’t even look up as I quietly walk down the same aisle she is standing in and when she reaches for a book without even looking up, showing me how well she knows this section, I reach for it too. Her fingers brush against mine, and I fight back the tingle as sparks fly between us.
“Sorry,” she says, still not looking up.
“No worries,” I murmur, letting my hand linger just a moment too long.
Ever finally glances up, those emerald eyes of hers shifting like the rolling English hills. They settle into a shade that tells me she’s more curious than annoyed.
“Benedict,” she breathes, tilting her head slightly, her blonde hair cascading over one shoulder. “Sorry, I’m totally out of it.”
“Understandable,” I murmur, causing her to give me a sharp glare.
I have to come clean with her about what we know. The longer this goes on, the worse it will be for everyone involved when she finds out we know exactly what happened and could’ve prevented it had we not been blindsided by her sudden appearance under our roof and how to navigate that. And don’t even get started on the fucking evil twin. Jesus. What a shitshow.
Stepping back to give her space, but not before grabbing another book near the one she wants. “Guess we have the same taste.”
“Seems like it,” she says with a small smile, pulling the book closer. “You’re into Brontë?”
“Actually, yeah.” I nod, watching the way her eyes light up. ‘Wuthering Heights’ is a dark labyrinth of the human psyche, don’t you think?”
“Exactly!” She lights up, clutching the book to her chest. “It’s all twisted love and revenge—makes you wonder about the depth of passion, doesn’t it? Wow, Ididn’t know… so when I saw you in English Lit, you actually read it?”
Snickering, I nod. “Yeah. I’m not a star attendee, but it’s my major, like you.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Kinda figured you’d already have seen me. Call me egotistical.” I give her a half smile that draws her gaze to my lips.
“Sorry, I’m focused when it comes to classes. Bit of a nerd.”
“A hot nerd, though.” I cringe at the sheer lameness of that statement.
She giggles, though, to my relief. “Well, the same could be said for you.”
“I’ll take it.” The desire that courses through me that she thinks I’m hot is something I never imagined one syllable would ever do to me. “But passion can drive people to do crazy things.” The words tumble out, edged with more truth than I intend. “In the books, you know? Charlotte’s work is fascinating, too. Do you prefer her over Emily?”
“Hard to say.” Ever purses her lips in thought. “I admire Charlotte for ‘Jane Eyre.’ There’s something raw and real about Jane’s character, her resilience.”
“Resilience,” I echo, thinking how that word fits Ever perfectly. She’s always stood apart, her name synonymous with the university itself, yet she doesn’t flaunt it. “That’s one hell of a trait to write about.”
“Right?” She nods eagerly. “And what about you? Who’s your literary hero?”
“Orwell,” I say without hesitation. “His grip ondystopian futures is chilling. Makes you look at society differently.”
“Dark, but insightful.” A knowing look crosses her face as if she sees through me. “I guess we both appreciate a story that digs deep into the darker side of things.”
“Something like that,” I agree, feeling the weight of my own secrets. The library around us seems to close in, books filled with truths and lies alike. In this moment, with Ever, I’m painfully aware of which ones I’m living.
“Okay, Benedict. Let’s see if your taste in literature is as good as you say.” There is a spark of challenge that pulls me deeper into her orbit.
“Challenge accepted. And call me Ben, please,” I say, my voice steady though my pulse isn’t. With her, it’s the thrill of the chase, the shared whispers between the lines. It’s dangerous, and fuck, I can’t seem to get enough. I don’t want this interaction to end. “Fancy a coffee?”
Ever looks up from the shelf, her gaze reflecting the lights, giving them a near-mystical glow.
