Emperor of Mayhem

f i f t y - t h r e e

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YOUR NAME ON THE MOON
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[ sorry this came five hours later than I promised. I got caught up in some shit. This is a continuation of the last chapter]

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"I tried to get every book ever written on here." He said, his fingers grazing over the spines of the books in the aisle for dark romance while I tailed behind him, scanning for my next read. "From mythology to fantasy, romance, non fiction, cook books, DIY, you name it. I tried to get my hands on all of them." 

He definitely watched me enough to know stories with dark themes were my top favorites. That was why he probably made sure they were on the first aisle, easily accessible.

I really loved the grumpy versus the sunshine trope even if the roles were reversed but I mostly preferred the men being grumpy while the women were the sunshine, the devil's saving grace. I just enjoyed when the villain finally gets to tell his own story—and where he gets the girl. Maybe because that was my story. I didn't fall in love with a hero as much as I would have probably wished to. Like Riccardo had said, I didn't fall for the good guy like girls like me should.

I fell for the bad one. The one heaven rejected. 

The one god spat into the pit of hell to burn for his iniquities.

"Is that even possible?" I asked, pausing to pull out a book whose cover looked great, almost familiar, "To get all the books ever written?" 

I scanned the book now in my hand, smiling at the very intriguing title; House of Adam by Nikita Mikhailova. 

Have I read it before? The name was echoing in my head rather strangely.

"It was hard, of course." He paused and turned to face me, his hands falling inside his pockets, "But I was a man with a vision and that vision was my driving force."

"Thank you." I ended up saying as I leaned casually against the white shelf while absentmindedly flipping through the pages of the book in my hand, "For all the effort you put into this. All your sleepless nights and the hours you spent brainstorming just so I could have something so grand."

"Don't do that, love." He shook his head in disapproval, his eyes piercing right through mine.

"Do what?" I asked. What did I say just now that was offensive?

"Show gratitude for something I did solely for myself." My furrow only deepened at his words.

"Sorry?" I couldn't understand him.

Then he sighed. "You love books, Azania. They were your escape into a different world, the door to a million universes that you seek to explore." He began to take slow and calculated steps closer to me, "I see you, every page flipped only widens your smile, brightens that luminous globe of yours and gets you so engrossed you wouldn't even know when the time has passed you by. When you're sad you run to your little shelf. When you are angry you pick up a book, when you suddenly need to feel something, you bury your nose between the pages of a great one. They were your best friend, the men that were though merely inks on paper were the love of your life, your home, perhaps. And if a fictional character, a life trapped in the pages of a book could do more than I could ever do, then what exactly do I mean when I say it countlessly that I love you if I can't do this much, build you a little world and fill it with books? A door that opens only to a woman who loved to travel through different universes and live a hundred different lives?"