Page 66 of The Glass Empire
I wondered if she was praying for me.
16
The Proposition
Monika
The library at midnight was a different world.
By day, it was my refuge—the place I came to escape the weight of the mansion, the press of eyes that followed me everywhere. I would curl into one of the leather armchairs with my veterinary textbook and pretend I was somewhere else. Somewhere the air didn't taste like blood and secrets.
But at midnight, the library belonged to the shadows.
The fire had burned low, leaving only embers that glowed like dying stars. The chandelier was dark, the crystals catching the moonlight in cold, scattered prisms. The books on the walls—hundreds of them, thousands—stood like sentinels, their spines gold and crimson and the deep green of old money.
I shouldn't have been here.
Aleksander was away—business, somewhere in the city, something he hadn't explained and I hadn't asked about. Gabriel had gone to bed hours ago, exhausted from studying, from the greenhouse, from the desperate, broken way we'd clung to each other. The house was quiet. The servants had retreated to their quarters. I was alone.
Or I thought I was.
I heard him before I saw him. The soft creak of a floorboard. The whisper of fabric against wood. The steady, deliberate rhythm of footsteps that weren't trying to hide.
I didn't turn around.
"Nathan."
"Monika." His voice came from behind me, close—closer than I'd expected. I felt the warmth of him before I felt his touch, the heat radiating off his body like a furnace. "You're up late."
"So are you."
"I couldn't sleep."
He moved into my field of vision, circling the armchair like a predator assessing its prey. He was dressed in black—a shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. His trousers were charcoal, his feet bare, and his hair was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it.
He looked dangerous. He always looked dangerous. But tonight, there was something else in his face—something that made my stomach tighten and my breath catch.
"You're wearing his robe," he said.
I looked down. The silk was pale blue—the color of the sky just before dawn—and it draped over my body like water. Aleksander had bought it for me. Left it on my bed with a note that saidFor you. —A.
I hadn't thrown it away.
"It's comfortable," I said.
"It's his."
"Everything in this house is his."
Nathan stopped in front of me. The armchair was between us—a barrier, thin and fragile—and he put his hands on the back of it, leaning forward, bringing his face close to mine.
"My father. My brother. They've both had you."
The words landed like stones in still water. I watched his face for anger, for disgust, for anything that might tell me what he was thinking. But his expression was unreadable—a mask of calm that I knew from experience hid something volatile.
" That's none of your business," I said.
"Everything about you is my business now." He straightened and walked around the armchair. I stood, instinct pushing me to my feet, and he stepped into the space I'd vacated. "You're a Mire. You carry our name. You live in our house. Every breath you take, every step you make, every man you spread your legs for—it's my business."
