Page 54 of Bittersweet & Strange

His fingers slide between mine.

“Come here,” he says.

I sit beside him instead of lying down in front of the fire, and the chair is large enough that I can tuck myself against his side without either of us being uncomfortable. My head finds his shoulder while I balance the heavy book across our laps. Rhys relaxes farther into the leather, and I open to the first page.

“Ready?”

“No.”

I glance up. “No?”

“I intend to sleep.”

“You just told me this was your favorite book.”

“I know how it ends.”

I roll my eyes and begin reading anyway.

His breathing gradually changes while I work through the first few pages. The rigid line of his body softens beside mine, and eventually his arm comes around my shoulders without interrupting me. I lean closer and continue reading, glancing at him every few pages to find his eyes still closed.

I assume he’s asleep until I deliberately skip a paragraph.

“You missed a section,” he murmurs.

I stop, then laugh so loudly that his arm tightens around me. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“I was attempting to.”

“You were listening.”

“Unfortunately.”

I turn back a page and find the paragraph I skipped. “Insufferable man.”

“Read.”

I smile and begin again.

The fire crackles in front of us while afternoon light spills through the enormous windows. Rhys’s thumb moves absently against my shoulder as I read, and somewhere around the fourth chapter, his breathing finally becomes deep and even enough that I know he’s actually fallen asleep. I keep reading anyway. I don’t know whether he can hear me, but it doesn’t matter.

For the longest time, I thought the castle was filled with beautiful things that belonged entirely to Rhys. His roses. His greenhouse. His books. His enormous rooms and quiet corridors. Now I’m beginning to understand that he was never hoarding any of it. He simply had no one to share it with.

I stop reading and rest against him a little more, careful not to wake him as I let the book remain open across my lap. My eyes are heavy enough that the words have started blurring together anyway. We were up entirely too late last night, and when I think about the things he did to me, a shiver moves through my body that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

I glance down at the book resting across my thighs and run my thumb along the edge of the page. My father would love this library. The thought comes without warning, wiping away the small smile that had been lingering on my face.

He would spend days in here if Rhys allowed him, wandering from shelf to shelf and pulling down anything that caught his attention, then forgetting whatever chore he was supposed to be doing because he’d found something more interesting to read. I can picture him in one of the chairs across from us with his feet stretched toward the fire. The image comes so easily that for one foolish second, it almost feels possible.

Then I remember that I don’t even know if he’s all right.

My fingers stop moving against the page.

That’s all I need.

I don’t need to leave Rhys forever. I don’t need to disappear into the village and never come back. I just need to see my father with my own eyes and know there’s food on the table. I need to see enough wood stacked beside the house to keep him warm and make certain his cough hasn’t returned. I need to know he isn’t sitting there alone and hungry while I’m surrounded by more food than I could eat and more warmth than I know what to do with.

If Rhys would give me an inch—just one inch—I’d come back.