Page 13 of Manic

Still, I swallowed an annoyed growl at his obvious reply, and instead asked, “Do you live here with your father?”

“No. I own a penthouse in Vancouver.”

My brows jumped. I hadn’t expected him to answer and halted my steps to face him. “Do you own the penthouse or the building?”

“Both.” He gave me a lopsided smile, but I squinted as a thought surfaced.

There had been rumors about Manic, the Mortaine’s second oldest son—ones that gave him a certain… reputation. Ones that, I was certain, placed him in the same box as a few of the crooked politicians who populated the city. Most of them liked to place illegal bets, winning and losing small fortunes, yachts, and even… apartments.

I only knew this because my father had mentioned it in passing, grumbling under his breath about the casinos and the drama attached to them. Mostly lawsuits. But sometimes, those illegal dealings slipped past the casino doors and into his private poker rooms.

And, if I was correct, Manic liked poker.

“Did you buy it or… did you get it some other way?”

He chuckled. “Smart question. I won it over poker.”

I was right. “You did not.”

“I did.” He hummed, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth as if recalling a fond memory. “The previous owner was not pleased with that. You should’ve seen his face.”

“I imagine he was quite angry.”

Manic grunted in agreement and began walking again, leaving me no choice but to follow. After a few twists and turns through corridors I didn’t remember the path to, we stopped outside two double wooden doors. They towered above, and I lifted my eyes to meet the end of them. They were intricately carved, as if they’d been crafted hundreds of years ago.

Manic opened one and gestured me in, pausing with his hand on the curved handle as if silently asking me to step inside. For a moment, I hesitated, as an expression I couldn’t quite place ran over his features. It was small, but it was there.

Was it his own hesitation? Wariness, perhaps?

Despite the twist in my stomach, I entered with a sigh as my interest in books trumped my fleeting brush of hesitation. The moment my heels touched the floor, I was met with a lifetime of books, accompanied by the overwhelming scent of old parchment and aged leather.

Rows of bookcases stood on both sides with small golden sconces hung on the ends. They flickered slightly, as if a few of the bulbs had the audacity to think about snuffing the light from the room. It wouldn’t matter, as a glorious chandelier hung from the beams, and an enormous hearth rested at the back. It climbed toward the ceiling, made entirely of stone.

On either side of the room were a set of stairs, leading up to what appeared to be a mezzanine of sorts. This room, whatever it was, was larger than anything in our estate.

Thousands of books stared back, and it took my breath away.

Reading was my only escape from the real world, and if one had fit, I probably would have tried slipping a book into my clutch tonight. Father would have tore it from my hands if he’d seen it, so I’d refrained and opted for the queen’s chess piece instead.

It was comforting to have the piece with me, and the only reason I dared to venture the halls with Manic. I was positive my admirer was hacking into every camera surrounding this place just to find me.

Manic said nothing when I veered left and sauntered down a row, slowly dragging my finger over the spines. Some titles I recognized, others I didn't.

Most were old and frayed, like they’d been read until their spines nearly broke before being stuffed away to die on a shelf. They weren’t dirty, though. I was positive whatever maids they had ensured that the books remained dust free. Not even a speck.

I peered over my shoulder, finding Manic leaning against the shelf with a small twist to his mouth. He was charming, annoyingly so.

“Do you like to read?” he asked, and I nodded. “Why don’t you pick out a few? You can return them when you’re done.”

I almost laughed, but then I caught his stoic expression. “You’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

This time, I did laugh, but mostly from shock. “I’m not taking any books from you. I can’t⁠—”

My words slammed to a halt when he stepped forward. He casually browsed the shelf, pulling a few books—some large, some small—each one a little worn around the edges like they’d been read over and over again. Like they’d been cherished at one point.

“Here, pick from these.” He extended five books, and I blinked.