Curse of the Wolf King - Tessonja Odette Page 0,87
and his pack were beginning to take pride in this place.
The halls grow narrower, and I’m forced to walk a little closer to Elliot. That and the quiet of our surroundings has my awareness of him growing. We’re alone in a wing I’ve never been to, our shoulders brushing as we walk. I clear my throat. “So, how was your dance lesson?”
He glances at me with a wry grin. “How do you think? It was torture, like everything else in this scheme of yours.”
Despite his words, his tone is light. It’s enough to ease some of the tension roiling in my stomach. “Sounds like it was effective then.”
He shrugs. “I learned the gallopade, the waltz, and the polka. We tried to learn something called the quadrille and then the cotillion, but even with the help of some of my pack attempting to learn the dance with us, it ended in a mess.”
I try to imagine such a sight and almost wish I hadn’t missed it. I can hardly fathom how uncomfortable Gray and Blackbeard would be if they’d been requisitioned for the lesson. Group dances like the quadrille and cotillion are quite complex for novices to perform.
“Three dances should suffice,” I say. “That will give you plenty to have with Imogen, enough to make your intentions clear and for her to be swept away by you.” I force my lips into a curt smile while I say these words, but the twisting in my heart doesn’t seem to match.
Saving me from further conversation on the topic, Elliot stops outside a closed door. “Here we are.”
My pulse quickens with anticipation as he pushes open the door to reveal a dark room, then fumbles with something near the wall. A warm glow emanates from orbs of light hovering over sconces throughout the room, illuminating a modest space filled with several seating areas, the walls covered with floor-to-ceiling bookcases interspersed by a few large windows. Each window hosts a padded seat, and everything in me begs to climb upon one with a book at once. I step farther into the room, turning in a circle to take in the vast number of books.
“My library,” Elliot says, tone somber as he stands with his hands clasped behind his back.
I meet his gaze with a wrinkled brow. “Why do you sound so displeased, Mr. Rochester?”
His jaw shifts side to side. “Every one of these books is written by a human.”
Some of my joy sinks to my toes, threatening to retreat altogether. “Humans. Those you so vehemently hate.”
He takes a few slow steps toward one of the bookcases. “These books are fiction, Gemma.”
“Oh, so you have a problem with fiction now too?”
His lips melt into a frown, eyes going unfocused as his tone becomes strained. “There’s just so much…feeling in these books. I don’t like the way my body responds to it.”
This surprises me and manages to lessen some of my indignation. I step closer to him. “Does that mean you’ve tried reading them?”
“I’ve been bored now and then,” he says with a noncommittal shrug.
“And how exactly did your body respond to what you read?” I grow suddenly hot, realizing how improper my question sounds, especially with the wicked fantasies I had about fictional earl-Elliot still fresh in my mind.
He, however, doesn’t seem to find anything lewd about it. “I feel things I don’t feel as a wolf. Books give me experiences I shouldn’t have, emotions that aren’t my own. They spell out words that manage to draw tears from my eyes, twist my heart, even though nothing is physically happening to me. It’s a human sorcery I don’t care to mess with.”
His answer both amuses and saddens me. “Elliot, that’s called empathy. It isn’t sorcery. Surely wolves—and unseelie fae, for that matter—have emotions.”
“Not like this. We feel passions driven by our instincts. But the pages in these books…” He shakes his head. “I cannot explain it, but they have a powerful effect on me.”
“That’s sort of the whole point,” I say. “That is why fiction exists. It takes us to places we’ll never go in real life, allows us to feel emotions and experiences we might not get the chance to have ourselves. It isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s a shame you don’t see fiction as the blessing it can be.”
“Blessing? How so?”
“Well, it’s true that books can make you feel things that may not be pleasant. Sad things, losses, grief. But they can make you feel happy things too. Pleasant endings and