who read poetry in window seats and asked for nothing. He discovered her patterns quickly. She came each afternoon when he thought him occupied with estate business, curling into that same window seat like a cat seeking sunlight. She read voraciously: poetry, philosophy, novels he himself had purchased years ago and forgotten. Sometimes her lips moved as she read, forming silent words that made something tighten painfully behind his ribs.
On the fifth day he entered while she was there, pretending surprise, though he had timed it precisely. She looked up, those green eyes widening, but did not flee as he expected. "My lord," she acknowledged softly, preparing to leave. "Stay," he said, then gentler, "Please. I came for a book myself." It was partially true. He had come for a book and to see if she would run from him again. She hesitated, conflict warring across her expressive face before sinking back into her seat with obvious reluctance.
They existed in tense silence for several minutes, the only sound the whisper of turning pages. Then, unexpectedly, he heard her laugh, a small, quickly stifled sound that made him look up sharply. "Forgive me," she said, color flooding her cheeks. "The author made an observation that struck me as particularly amusing." "Which author?" he asked before he could stop himself. She showed him the page, a satirical essay on London society. Despite himself, he felt his mouth twitch toward something dangerously close to a smile. "Bellamy is rather savage in his assessments." "Truth often is, my lord."
Their eyes met and held, and for the first time since their disastrous wedding, Dominic saw not his enemy's daughter, but simply a young woman who loved books as fiercely as he once had, before war stole such gentle pleasures from him. "You may call me Dominic," he heard himself say, "when we are alone." Her breath caught, surprise and something softer flickering across her features. "Genevieve," she offered quietly. "My name is Genevieve." And though they returned to their reading, the silence between them had transformed into something else entirely, something that felt dangerously like companionship.
The thaw came gradually, like spring creeping across frozen ground. Dominic found himself spending afternoons in the library, ostensibly reading, but more often watching Genevieve as she lost herself in literature. They began discussing books, tentatively at first, then with growing ease. He discovered she possessed a sharp wit and sharper intelligence, that she could debate philosophy and dissect poetry with skill that left him unexpectedly challenged. She made him laugh, this girl he had sworn to despise. Worse, she made him feel human again, something beyond the war wolf, beyond the avenging brother, beyond the cold lord who had locked his heart away with his brother's memory.