Page 46 of The Silent Princess

“Thank you,” she says silently. “My stepmother…. She only wanted to make me a smaller version of her daughters. It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be, and…” She sighs. “And you’re right. I hate this dress, by the way.” Her remark earns me a shy smile, lifting something in my chest. “Tristan, I… Why did you want to see me again? I don’t understand it. Any of it.”

She waves toward Paul, who is driving unbothered, listening to classical music. “I told you. You have been occupying my every thought, and I wanted to show you something you might like,” I sign, watching as a ripple of electricity courses through her, her legs shifting nervously.

“We’re here, sir,” Paul says. Outside, the public library stands, inspired by Roman architecture, with high columns and marbled clay. Something tugs at my sleeve, and I swallow a grin. If that is one of her many ways to catch my attention, I might enjoy it a little too much.

“I know the library. I used to go there often when I studied.”

“We are not going inside.” She frowns, looking at me like I am speaking a foreign language.

“We are going under, Ella. You will see.” Just as she seems to believe we would enter by the main door, Paul drives again, leading us to another entrance at the back, where he can park a meter from the door, leaving no chance for Cole’s men to see Ella.

“Why?” she signs.

“Safety first,” I deflect, instead of telling her the truth. That being seen with me from now on is not safe for her. That she could become the target of a vendetta where she would be collateral damage in the middle of a generational war. And also, that protecting her is becoming an obsession, her delicate nature forcing me to seek the beast in me, violent and ruthless, eager to slash anyone who could try to hurt her.

I open my door and circle the car to help her down.

My palm burns from the lack of her touch, and so I catch her hand, searching for relief. To my victory, she does not argue and lets me lace our fingers, leading her to the stairs as she follows me, trusting me. A quick glance to both sides confirms that no one is following us, and I get the sudden urge to hide her. Could Cole’s men lurk in the shadows? Of course they could. I have made many enemies while building Ashford Holdings to its renowned nobility, crushing many egos on the way, from which I am safe to say some would very much enjoy watching me get eaten alive by wolves. Cole isn’t my first enemy. Nor the last.

She squeezes my hand, and I glance over my shoulder, the narrow staff hallway dark around her despite the several lightbulbs above. I stop, choosing silence as a blanket to wrap around her. Words and sound shake her, and this is not what I want right now. I want… I want her to trust me, for reasons I cannot grasp, and it is as vital as the air in my lungs. Cupping her cheek, I move closer, her breathing deepening by the second. My thumb brushes her upper cheek, where there is a slight mark from days ago. Her lips call my name, my resolve held by a thread threatening to snap. I tower over her, the tip of my nose brushing hers, the touch almost invisible, as she offers me the smallest nod.

I want to kiss her, but if I do, if I do, then I have the sudden fear that I will not be able to ever think straight again. That she will become the center of my attention, her well-being and safety my every obsession, and I am not sure that this is what she deserves. To have a beast shadowing her, wanting to hold her in a cage made of my arms and mind, tearing her away from her life, wanting to sew back her wounds myself, wanting to hide her in my mansion, far from her family. My lips find her temple, and I press a kiss there, as gently as I can, right on her skin, so translucent there’s blue pathways pulsing underneath, her long hair begging to be held tightly in my hands. Had she left now, I would have let her. But she melts at the touch of my lips, a slight hum made of air escaping her mouth. How will I ever go back to feeling nothing but the excitement of fighting opponents and buying firms? How will I ever go back to thinking nonstop about work, legacy, and vengeance? How does one live after tasting the forbidden fruit of affection and being offered an angel to care for?

Does one walk away?

Or…

Does one…trap the angel?

Ella

I have never been kissed in my life. That is to say, by a man. A real one with a voice that seems to have lived a hundred lives, hands that could decide to hurt or protect, an aura that could lead or destroy. My parents used to kiss me on the cheek. My stepsisters would blow me kisses alongside mocking gestures. And Mara, Mara would make the sound, a tight smack of her red lips, far away from me, after an order, a remark, that little snap of her mouth pressing against itself, as if mocking the irony of softness. Why did Tristan have to do that? What will I do now that I have tasted care and attention? How many more nights will I hide under my bed, holding my ribs, hugging myself, soothing the broken parts of me no one wants to love?

Fighting back tears, I boldly rest a hand on his chest and push him away, the motion unnatural, forced, even if I remain gentle. He frowns.

“Please accept my apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he delivers quickly, running a hand through his perfectly disheveled short brown hair.

“You’re too kind,” I sign.

“Is there such a thing as too kind?” he signs back, the dark hallway making me lack air.

“I think this is a mistake,” I sign, shaking my head and looking back at the closed door.

“You said you trusted me. Just give me two minutes. Please.” He bores his eyes into mine as if I am the biggest contract of his career.

“Okay,” I breathe out as he takes my hand again and leads me to a set of stairs at the end of the hallway. We climb three of them until we pass a large door opening onto a massive room, surely the archives of the library. There is a young man behind a counter, looking like a student with round spectacles, cherub cheeks, and mid-length hair.

“Tristan Ashford. I called this morning,” Tristan announces. The guy looks up from his sci-fi book and jerks back.

“Right, right, it’s ready, gimme a,” he chews, “minute,” then stands awkwardly, brushing crumbs from his thighs. “This way, sir.” He opens the Dutch door next to him as Tristan holds my hand tighter. No one has ever done that before, and it feels like…like he wants me close to him, to actively be there. “Like I told you…” the young archivist says, “it’s in perfect condition. I’m talking state-of-the-art, no dust, no mold, like, epic, you know? And no one is allowed to borrow it. We even had a museum in England try to get it for an exhibition last year, but Direction said no. Too precious to travel. We’ve displayed them under a glass case, so…yeah, you won’t be able to touch them. Alfie, our conservator, said they could just as easily turn into dust ‘cause the storage conditions weren’t that good before they came here.” We pass by several high shelves, all holding leather-bound books, thick encyclopedias, treasures smelling of old wood. We keep going through this beautiful maze until we reach an area where shelves surround a large table illuminated by neon light, a glass cover resting over it.

“Right here,” the guy says. “Never been shown to the public. I think it’s one of those rare things you only get to see when you’re working here. Kind of cool…” He trails off, hands in his pockets.

“Thank you,” Tristan says, and I catch him giving something from his pocket to the guy. Is he tipping him so I can see this?

“Wow, thanks, that’s, yeah, thanks,” the archivist repeats, adding air to his cheeks as if the tip is too good to be true. “Take your time. I’ll wait over there, uh…” and disappears in the direction we came from.

“Come here,” Tristan calls, his tone low and rich, making me wish I could be woken by his voice every day.