Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
I pull up the app, scroll, and place an order for the greasiest takeout I can find. I throw in a side salad to appease my conscience.
I press the button. "Are you a big tipper?"
"Of course. They’re bringing me food, and I don’t have to cook. Tip them whatever the hell you want."
I like that.
I tip big and hand him the phone back.
He opens a door at the very end of the hall. “And this room here, it’s—"
He stops. I do too. Instead of moving forward, I stare.
Inside, the walls are lined with shelves. Books—old, worn, their spines cracked with use. It smells of varnished wood and aged paper.
A framed quote hangs over the desk.
"Even in the grave, all is not lost."
I freeze.
"Edgar Allan Poe?" My voice comes out soft.
Matvei shrugs, but there’s something guarded in the set of his jaw. "Yeah. So?"
I stare at him, heart racing. "You know I like Poe."
His head tilts. He doesn’t respond. Did he put this here for me? Or…
My skin crawls, that familiar flash of how long has he been watching me bubbling up. Of course he knows. Of course he’s been in my shit.
Except—
I haven’t read Poe in years.
Years.
But when I did, I didn’t just read, I consumed. Memorized. It was all I read because, for the first time in my life, I felt seen. Someone else understood the complex emotions of being human, of wanting to live and sometimes hating every second.
But how would he know?
I didn’t leave that trail for him to follow. I didn’t post it, didn’t leave a book lying around, barely thought about it… until right now.
"So how did you know?" I whisper.
His eyes darken. "I didn’t. Are you giving me shit?”
I shake my head.
We stare at each other, and the air between us shifts. Not just hunger. Something stranger. Older.
"Maybe you’ve been stalking me," he says, his voice low and dangerous.
My breath catches. “Is that a joke?” I laugh to cover the way my pulse spikes. "You wish."
But my hands tremble when I touch the book lying on the desk. My fingerprints have never been on this one—but it still feels like it’s mine.
Or his.
Or ours.
“And so being young and dipped in folly…” My voice trails off.
“I fell in love with melancholy,” Matvei finishes.
My head snaps up.
Something behind his gaze flickers. Sharp. Knowing.
Vulnerable.
My pulse beats faster. Maybe he’s been watching me longer than I thought? But no, that doesn’t make sense…
I glance down at another page, my voice quieter now. “Deep into that darkness, peering, long I stood there…”
“Wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams…” His voice trails off. I mentally complete the line.
…no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The doorbell rings, soft and delicate, like wind chimes. It doesn’t belong in a house like this, too pretty for all this dark wood and sharp edges. I glance at him, curious.
He shrugs. "Food."
Oh. Right. I almost forgot. I’ve been too distracted by him—his hands, his voice, the weight of his attention.
Our shared madness.
He locks the door behind him and double-checks it like a man who’s never been safe a single day in his life. And when we head for the living room, his hand finds mine again… like it belongs there.
"Sit on the couch," he orders. "Hands in your lap, where I can see them."
He tries to sound sharp, but some of the bite is gone. He’s not as angry anymore—just possessive. Watchful.
I nod like the obedient little brat he thinks I am and give him mocking servitude. “Yes, sir."
He doesn’t trust my obedience. I can feel his eyes drilling into my back as I walk to the couch, which means—he’s exactly where I want him. I wink over my shoulder, and his jaw ticks.
He checks the peephole. Checks the cameras. Touches the gun at his hip before unlocking the door. He doesn’t trust anyone—not the delivery guy, not the air, not the night itself.
It should be sad, and it is, but mostly, it’s familiar. Too familiar.
A few minutes later, I’m sitting cross-legged on his couch, a spread of food in front of us. Greasy, messy chicken wings, hot, salted fries, and sticky rice. None of it belongs together, but I want all of it.
"Hands off,” he says.
I blink at him. "What?"
"Put your hands behind your head."
I stare at him, but his face is pure control. Cold, quiet authority. I do it. My fingers are laced behind my head like I’m under arrest, my chest arching just a little. His eyes flick down and back up.
“You just want my nipples pushing against this tee, don’t you?”
With a noncommittal grunt, he picks up a wing.
I expect him to pass it to me. He doesn’t. He holds it up to my mouth, and for one long second, we both just breathe.
"Open."
I do.
He slides the meat between my lips, slowly, watching every second like he’s committing it to memory. I take a bite, tongue flicking out to catch the sauce, and his pupils blow wide.