Page 82 of A Heart So Haunted
He huffed. “I abhor garlic.” Then, “I pay no mind to physical labor, if you must know. I’d much rather make money from something that stations itself and doesn’t require my constant attention.”
A businessman to his core, I thought, the obituary coming to mind. When I said as much, his nose wrinkled. “And you know this how?”
“Believe it or not, women read in this day and age.”
His eyes rolled. “I meantfrom wheredid you read it.”
I almost preened at his attempted insult. Instead, my expression softened. I thought of his photograph. Everything that Ihadn’tfound yet in order to hold up our deal.
I situated myself to face him. “I may have snooped through the Colleton library. Found a few articles and pictures of you, for proof you weren’t lying to me. That you did exist at one point.”
An evil grin curled over his mouth. He looked almost like a hyena. My stomach dropped—not out of fear, but anticipation. “Ah. And what did you find? Portrait wise?”
“Nothing outstanding.” I felt like this was a test. I couldn’t stifle the tingle that started at the base of my spine.
“Is this why you have a printed picture of me at thirty-three hidden inside your nightstand?”
My breath caught. “You didn’t!” I winced, then lowered my voice and bent forward. “You went throughmy things?”
“It was not just you, dearest. I may have gone through much of your aunt’s things, too.” He shrugged and looked at me from under his lashes, which were the richest of honeyed browns. “But I suppose everything is yours now.”
The sandpaper crinkled in my hand. My face immediately lit on fire. All I could think of was my nightstand. Dumbly, I said, “What.”
“I told you, I roam.” His voice took on a rough quality, smug to the point of a rumble.
Looking at Hadrian felt—too susceptible. Because I didn’t know what to feel quite yet. Or if what I was feeling was even okay.
I shoved at the mental image of Hadrian, either in his creature form or as himself, snooping. In his defense, I should have thought about how he could go through anything in the house. Heat curled in my chest at the thought of him rifling through the closets, drawers, my bags.Allof my things.
He must have seen the tortured look I tried to hide, because he said, “I’d be wary of looking at my portrait too much before you fall asleep. You might dream of things you wouldn’t wish to.”
His expression suggested anythingbutunpleasant dreams.
I was going to light on fire. Right here. Nothing but charred rug would be left in my wake.
“Do not look so near to death, Landry. I find it quite enthralling. It’s flattering that you find me so attractive, even with the lovely set of horns I possess from time to time.” He bumped his knee against mine. “Who knows, next time I think I should fulfill this character you’ve painted me as and grab your wrist from beneath the bed instead of just crawl out from under it.”
The thought of him—grabbing my wrist—pulling me down—I shouldn’t have blushed at the thought, shouldn’t have started to picture him with slightly parted lips and—
“I’ll hit you with a lamp,” I said, but it was too wispy to be a threat, “if you try to do that.”
He laughed. Actually laughed, deep from his chest—the sound was beautifully intoxicating. Like he knew what I was picturing. It only electrified the air, the space he took up, emphasized the looseness to his shoulders and the dip of his arms, the swoop of his thighs.
I tried to straighten, to puff up a bit. Anything to quell the burn now crawling up my spine. “All right, since you’re so keen on snooping through people’s things, did my aunt have anything to do with you being trapped here? Did you find anything?” My words cracked. I cleared my throat and scooted back until the crushed velvet of the armchair pressed between my shoulder blades. That should be enough distance.
His expression solidified a bit. “No, it was not her. I heard her once or twice in more recent years—your aunt, I presume—while I was confined, but not much else.”
“Who, then? Trapped you?”
He sighed. He drew his knees to his chest and captured each wrist in the opposite hand. My eyes started to travel over his fingers,the veins that laced up his shirtsleeves and over his forearms. It made my throat dry.
“It might help us pinpoint what we’re looking for,” I suggested. I looked away. I needed to think—not let my mind wander. “Actually, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not comfortable yet.”
His eyes, slitted, traced the edge of the bookcase before turning to me. “How about this. I tell you something about my past, you offer something in return.”
My usual defensive shield started to pull into place. Instead, I held it fast. Just for a moment. A grain of honesty for honesty. He’d already listened to me talk at night. The only difference now was that I could see his reactions.
“Deal.” Outside, the sky had already started to melt into a faint pink. Within the hour, the colors would stretch far over the treetops, anchored by the sun.
