Ruin (Rhodes #1) - Rina Kent Page 0,67

to his side. My fingertips run along the endless titles of English, French, and Russian literature. Many of them aren’t translated to English. I check the covers and the careful way they’re wrapped. Holy... These are the first editions.

“You can’t choose?”

I whirl towards Aaron’s calm voice. The gentleman kind of calm. He’s standing not so far from me, half-leaning on a shelf. One of his hands in his pocket, a tiny gleam in his eyes. This is the first time he seems to have let his guard down.

“There are many.” I smile. “Which one is your favourite?”

“I don’t have favourites.”

I run my finger over one of Balzac’s books. “In nothing?”

“In nothing.”

“That’s a lie.” I smirk, finally getting the power. “I can cite many of your favourites.”

He raises both of his eyebrows. “Enlighten me.”

“Humph.” I tuck my hair back in a dramatic gesture. “For one, black is obviously your favourite...” I trail when his almost-smile greets me, amusement tugging on the corners of his eyes.

“Go ahead. My favourite what? Colour? Is an artist supposed to call black a colour?”

The bastard. He almost got me. I gulp. “Your favourite animals are cats. Although it’s a bigger cat, a jaguar is still a cat nonetheless.” I bump my chest out. “How about that?”

“I have Dobermans and hunting hounds too.” He leans close, the smirk still animating his face. “I also ride Jet. Never occurred to you that horses are also animals?”

“You...” I scratch my mind at something— anything. I refuse to lose. I inspect him up and down, then smile. “You prefer formal wear. You can’t deny that!”

“I wear sports’ clothes when I’m boxing.”

Oh, he boxes? Makes sense. His body is honed to perfection.

“I assume that’s all you got, mouse.” He turns before I’m given any chance to retort.

My neck stretches, glancing at the neat pile of paper atop his desk. “Do you work in the business field?”

He sits behind the table, both elbows on the wooden surface, his fingers forming a steeple near his chin. His face is inert, but there’s a glimmer in his eyes that compel me to continue talking. “Dad is also in stocks’ trading. He’s a first generation millionaire. All his assets were built by his own effort. He’s my role model and the most successful person I know.”

“Why didn’t you follow in his steps?” His voice is modulated, but it isn’t emotionless. At the matter of fact, it gives a clear hint of curiosity.

“No offence, but business lacks passion. I want to express that through my art. Besides, Dad encourages me to do whatever I want. Not once did he force me to do anything I dislike, or even suggested it. Mum supports me too, only she bleeds my ears with nagging before doing so.” I pause, letting silence cascade between us for a minute. Talking about Mum and Dad hurts. I don’t think it’ll ever stop being this painful. Refusing to stumble to tears, I gauge his expression. “What about your parents?”

There are no almost-smiles anymore. His face goes back to its usual blankness, shutting me out completely. His voice comes out in all lordliness. “Either pick a book or leave.”

It doesn’t surprise me that he closes off at the mention of Arthur and Eva. I’m quite sure they, and his psychotic aunt, had everything to do with his decimation into a psycho. I read that it always stems from childhood. Aaron is another victim.

With a sigh, I reach out for the nearest book and snuggle in the black-leathered sofa across from him.

The book turns out to be about mathematics and the theory of God-knows-what. A few pages later, and my eyelids are fighting sleep.

Instead of changing the book, I peek over it at Aaron. His brows are knit together as he reads a chunk of papers. The polished arrangement of things in his office, his room, and this whole place is almost OCD. He pulls a pen from a sleek pile of similar-looking pens to scribble something. Once he’s done, he places the pen back precisely from where he took it— without looking up.

This man is definitely a neat freak.

Yet, I can’t help admiring his firm posture and elegant effortless movements. As if he’s been like this his entire life. He probably was.

Why does he refuse to divulge anything about his life? I hope Eva’s journal answers