Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy #1) - Natasha Knight Page 0,71
glancing over my shoulder, but all is quiet.
And I’m not doing anything wrong. Yet.
If anyone asks, I’m just going to get a book and read. I’m allowed in here.
I let myself in through the double doors. The chandelier offers slightly more light than those in the living and dining rooms, and reading lamps are set beside each comfortable, plush chair of which there must be a dozen, some set up in pairs, most alone. This is where I spent most of the afternoon. I even took a nap in one of those chairs. Not on purpose but I dozed.
I pick up one of the candles in its old-fashioned holder and make my way toward the darkest part of the library. It’s a little creepy in here but honestly no less so than my own bedroom, so I shake off the thoughts of ghosts and go to the cutout door similar to the one in the dining room.
I hold my candle up and have to peer close to see the outline, but there it is. The young woman had been whistling as she cleaned. It’s what had woken me from my impromptu nap. I hadn’t thought much of it until Antonia mentioned she wasn’t to go into the Master’s study.
I roll my eyes at the fact he makes them call him master.
Pretentious prick.
I search for something resembling a doorknob, but there isn’t one. Setting the candle on a shelf, I feel around, and a few moments later, when I push at just the right place, I feel the spring beneath my fingers, and the door creaks open.
Feeling victorious, I grin. Then look over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone before I step into Santiago’s study.
I stand and survey the space, the light of my candle dimmer than the flashing artificial green of the half dozen monitors across from his desk. They're the only modern thing in here. It’s a good-sized room with the huge antique desk at the center and a single chair across from it. A cognac-colored leather couch extends almost the length of the wall nearest me, and like the walls in my room, those here are paneled in dark wood. The far one is taken up entirely by leather-bound books and before it are two comfortable looking chairs with a small table between them.
I walk toward it, pausing at any creak in the floor, trying and failing to ignore the lingering scent of his cologne. It’s subtle, like when I smell it on him, but just as in the confessional the night of our wedding, it’s his scent, and I will never forget it. It’s like my body has a visceral reaction to it, too, my stomach fluttering, my heart racing.
I don’t know what it is about this man whose mark I wear etched in my skin. Whose ring circles my finger and whose rosary hangs heavy around my neck, but I am so highly aware of him past and present.
When I get to the wall of books, I see a glass with its remnant of amber liquid beside a book on the small table. The book itself is open and lying facedown.
I sit on the chair, and when I do, I see the pencil that must have rolled to the floor. I pick it up without even thinking and set it beside the book.
Santiago must have sat in this chair while drinking his drink.
I set my candle down and pick up the glass to inhale. Scotch. My dad had it for company at home. I bring the glass to my lips, and I’m not even sure why I do this. I’m not really thinking, and if I were, I couldn’t make sense of it. But I put my lips to the glass, and I drink the last sip of his scotch.
As the liquid burns its way down my throat, I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the chair. Leather combines with the scent of scotch and him. Keeping my eyes closed, I inhale, aware of the shudder that makes its way down my spine. I know it’s not the scotch. It doesn’t work that fast.
I open my eyes and set the glass down, then touch the tips of my fingers to the leather spine of the book. No title. The leather looks and feels ancient. The tome is thick and probably shouldn’t be laid facedown and open like he’s got it. It’ll damage the binding.