by Rene Folsom
She was a living book, just waiting for me to read her.
Leaning my ass against the sink, I towel dried my hands and continued to stare at her, pausing to see if she’d heard me. I knew something was up with the non-verbal reaction I was receiving, and it suddenly dawned on me that the manuscript I spent the past day and a half reading meant much more to her than she initially let on.
“So,” she said, her voice, quiet and unsure, filling the void in the room. “What do you think so far?”
My brow furrowed as I studied her. Did she really want to know what I thought? This was the first time she actually seemed to treat me like more than a pebble in her shoe. She was engaging in some sort of meaningful conversation, and yet, I was suddenly tongue-tied.
“Forget it,” she blurted out, waving her hand and bolting from her chair. Making her way toward the kitchen door, she added, “I don’t care.”
The sound of wood slamming together made me jump, the force of her tantrum causing a vibration to shudder beneath my feet. That was a rather odd mood swing, even for her. Usually, she would shut me out before I ever even thought of having a chance at intelligent banter. This time, the exchange was just a tease.
“Hey, wait!” I hollered. My feet started moving before my brain could catch up. It bugged me I couldn’t call after her—hell, I didn’t even know her name, if she even had one.
I made quick work of following her out of the kitchen and nearly ran into her in the hall. Even though I half expected her to be there, it still startled me, causing me to grab my chest and take a moment to catch my breath.
“It’s Karoline… my name is Karoline,” she muttered, as if reading my mind before turning on her heel and walking away from me. Her lithe steps weren’t like an animalistic being, but instead like an elegant, graceful woman. I watched, completely speechless yet again, as her hips swayed with each step she took, her jeans fitting her curves like a normal, human woman, until she disappeared around the corner, a lone rose staring at me in her absence.
This time, I didn’t follow.
The Name
Karoline.
Karoline.
Lying on my bed, I stared at the pattern on the ceiling and thought about our encounter, allowing the name to repeat over and over again in my head. Not only was I wondering why she chose that moment to tell me, but I was also wracking my brain… trying desperately to figure out where I’d heard it before.
Karoline.
Turning on my side, I glared at the bedside table. The lamp was off, the sunlight shining through the window being the only illumination I needed at that time of day, making the red color of my rose seem brighter by nature.
I couldn’t help but wonder what my pop was doing right now. Probably sitting comfortably in the bookstore he held so dear. Time seemed to go by in slow motion in this house. At first, it was because I thought every moment that passed would inch me closer to my doom—the end of my life. Now that my wolf-like captor chose to keep me fed and entertained—hell, even going as far as providing me clothing—each moment was spent wondering what she really wanted from me.
My eyes gravitated toward the manuscript littering the surface of the end table, my dead phone sitting as a paperweight on top of the scattered, handwritten papers. Pulling the last chapter from the wooden surface, I contemplated whether I wanted to read more or not. I’d been trying to drag it out, knowing it was the only thing keeping me company. I didn’t want the story to end.
I was so enthralled by the characters and their situation. Knowing it was coming to a close pained me. The heroine was so emotionally damaged by her deformity that the hero had a hard time breaking down the walls she’d built around her soul. He’d tried—boy, had he tried. It seemed his entire life now revolved around trying to show her she was worthy of love.
Before I knew it, I was devouring the last few pages. My eyes scanned the cursive handwriting, rapidly firing line by line, until I was gasping for air—literally grasping onto every last word as the hero walked out of the heroine’s life for good.
“No,” I whispered. How could the author end the entire novel like that? Weren’t they supposed to live happily ever after? Wasn’t the wounded heroine supposed to be won over by the amazingly patient hero?
Sitting up, I kneeled on the bed and fanned the pages out over the plush surface, frantically looking for more of the writing that I might’ve missed along the way. There had to be more to the story, something I’d completely overlooked. There was no way it could end like that.
That was when I saw it… the author’s name.
Karoline Webber.
I’d read the author’s name before, but it wasn’t until that moment that I made the connection.
Karoline.
Bolting up from the bed, I headed toward the door. The only sounds I could hear were my feet pounding on the cold, hardwood floor as I made my way to the main foyer.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I had to find her.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
I felt both dumb and determined in that moment.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Dumb for not realizing she was the author all this time.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
And determined to talk to her about her novel.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Entering the foyer, I glanced at the stairs. I knew I wasn’t allowed to climb them, but I wanted so badly to talk to her. Call it a death wish, but I had to know what she was thinking when writing an ending like that.
You’d think confronting her about it would be dumb, and maybe I was, but I was nothing if not passionate about my literature. Books were my life. I thrived on the fictional relationships that I devoured each and every day.
A flicker of light from the living room caught my eye, but I knew there was nothing in there except a barren set of walls and floors, the roses littering each room being the only really vibrant things that decorated this massive house. As soon as I poked my head into the room, I noticed the glimmer of a fire in the distance, the fireplace being filled with oranges and yellows—a stark contrast to the dark, barren soot that decorated the space mere hours before.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you,” a female voice murmured, startling me a bit since I saw no one. My footsteps still seemed loud against the wooden surface of the floor over the crackling sound of the fire as I slowly advanced further into the room. With a measured pace, I made my way toward the fire, rounding a set of chairs I hadn’t noticed before.
There she sat—like royalty—her fur-covered hands gripping both arms of the chair like it was her life raft and her world depended on it. There was a matching chair right next to her, a small, round table decorated with a single rose the only thing separating the two pieces of furniture in the otherwise empty room.
“I figured you’d want something to keep you warm. It’s supposed to get pretty chilly tonight,” she said, never looking in my direction as I took a seat next to her.
I had no words. This suddenly nice side of her took me off guard, not to mention I now knew she was the one to write such an amazing, touching story like the one I’d just read, Trusting Fate.
The Interrogation
We remained in silence for a good few minutes, me throwing her cursory glances and her staring into the fire. I tried to fumble together a string of words to speak, but all that came out was air whenever I opened my mouth, my fingers lightly stroking the soft petals of the rose between us.
“Well?” Her voice cut through the silence, startling me and making me pull back the hand I had touching the rose. I held back a gasp as she continued to speak, “Aren’t you going to pester me with questions? You seem to like doing that.”
I had a hundred questions to ask. I couldn’t figure out which to throw her way first, but at least the insufferable veil of silence had been lifted. I settled on the easiest one to ask.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was yours?” I asked, referring to the manuscript. It was obviously
close to her—probably indicative of her own personal situation.
“You never asked,” she said, tossing me a wayward glance.
I groaned. The oldest, most evasive answer in the book.
“Fine,” I said, deciding not to push the matter. “Then tell me this. Why didn’t you tell me your name before?” I said, and before she could open her mouth, quickly added, “And don’t say it’s because I didn’t ask.”
She gave a tiny laugh, shaking her head, short wisps of hair dancing over her delicate features. For a moment, I was mesmerized by them, but I quickly shook it off and forced myself to pay attention. This could be my last chance to get any straightforward answers out of her.
“I didn’t think you cared,” she admitted softly. “I’m your captor, your warden. Does a prisoner truly care to know their imprisoner?”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “At least… I do.”
She gave me another one of her sideways glances, letting it linger. I felt as if she were scrutinizing me. As if she were trying to figure me out.
“You’re an odd man,” she finally said after a moment of silent contemplation. I could hear her German accent a bit more distinctly in those words, and it enchanted me further.
“Says the wolf to the lion,” I retorted, trying to keep my cool.
She grinned, laughing softly. “To me, you’re more of a lamb.”
“Does that imply you’re going to eat me?”
“I haven’t decided on that yet,” she said, grinning at me. “You have no clue what I’m capable of.”
“Maybe,” I said, leaning toward her. She seemed shocked by this, her eyes widening slightly at my actions. “But I do know one thing about you.”
Her broadened stare narrowed at this, her interest piqued. “And that is?”
“Underneath all that fur, claws, growls, and anger… there’s a beautiful mind.”
She didn’t respond. She just stared at me, shock written all over her face. I took this as incentive to keep speaking.
“You make comments like you’re nothing more than a wild beast—the monster in every fairy tale. But you’re not, Karoline. You have a soul, a beautiful soul, and I know you do because I saw a piece of it in that manuscript, as well as in all these roses scattered about. Monsters don’t have souls, so there’s no way that you can be one. So stop with the act, because I’ve seen through it. You’re a person, not a beast. You might have the appearance of one, but I know that, deep in your heart, you aren’t.”
She sat in her chair, staring in stunned silence as I finished my speech. In honesty, I didn’t know where it came from. I just started speaking. Even I was slightly stunned by it, but I didn’t regret saying a single word.
“You…” She cleared her throat, an angry mask covering her true features. “You don’t mean that.”
I didn’t hesitate when I said, “I meant every word.”
She turned away, staring into the fire once more to digest my words, obviously not used to receiving such compliments. I turned to the fire as well, giving her the time she needed and to collect my own thoughts as well.
We sat like that, both of us staring into the lambent tongues of the fire, thinking. The flames felt warm against my skin, yet I couldn’t help but shiver as I thought of the changes that were happening. She was beginning to really open up to me, show me a bit of herself. It was almost as if I could see her as more of a friend than a captor.
What was it called again? Stockholm syndrome?
A large sigh left my lips, and it was obvious to both of us that I was about to say more.
Before I could utter another sound, she bolted up from her chair and began making her way out of the room.
I didn’t dare let her leave without answers. There was no way in hell she was going to brush me off this time and retreat to her room without so much as an explanation to why I was even standing here in her home.
With stealth I never knew I possessed, I quickly followed her.
“Why the hell did you bring me here? Why didn’t you just finish me out in the forest?” I blurted out, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her body, forcing her to look at me.
A wicked, intense snarl came from her chest, her fangs seeming to grow by the second as she gnashed her teeth in my direction. Without warning, she lunged toward me, pinning me to the wall with her forearm. Her strength pressed my back into the plaster with such force, I completely lost my breath.
I was no longer stunned by this reaction from her. I knew she only did it for show—a way to scare her prey instead of hurt them. I had enough confidence in her now to know she would never harm me. Not physically anyway.
Her breath was warm against my face as she eased up a bit on my throat.
“Karoline, talk to me. Tell me what it is you want from me,” I said, never letting go of her arm as I held onto her tightly, our faces mere inches apart. Her growl deepened, but something changed in her facial expression. A look of confusion crossed her eyes as she searched mine for something. “Why am I here?” I repeated.
Her attempts to back away were weak. If she wanted to escape from this situation, she could’ve done it with ease. Her strength was so much more intense than mine. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, looking away from me as she stepped a bit closer, pressing her body up against mine. The action was so conflicted—it was as if I could see the war playing out in front of me. My bravery seemed to be getting to her, changing the way she saw me. Hopefully, I was no longer a prisoner in her mind, but an equal—a man could hope anyway.
Never allowing her eyes to meet with mine, she eased up so her forearm was no longer crushing my jugular and pressed her hand on my chest instead, grunting to show how very conflicted she seemed to be. “You stood up to me,” she mumbled. “Back in the forest… you showed more fascination than fear toward me.”
“I—”
“No, don’t say anything,” she said, shaking her head and cutting me off. “I just thought, since you weren’t afraid of a beast like me… well, I thought you’d be good company to have around.” Finally, her eyes met mine, a look of pleading in their golden depths. “It gets kind of lonely out here,” she added in a mere whisper.
The confession was more than I expected, or could hope for. In a moment of clarity, my hand still clutched to her arm and her body pressing even closer to mine, I realized that she was just a lonesome creature with no one to talk to, or even look at, other than herself.
Letting go of my intense hold on her bicep, I stood stock still, allowing her hand to linger on my chest for as long as she desired. Within moments, I could feel the sharp dig of her claws gliding down and away from the surface of my cotton shirt as she backed up, releasing me from my hold between her hard body and the wall. Before she could break the hold her eyes had on mine, I spoke.
“I’m sorry I was so forceful with you. I just… well, I want you to know you don’t have to keep pushing me away,” I said, the apology spilling from my lips like second nature. I was so used to women being forward and overwhelming, yet the one creature I actually wanted attention from seemed to have an aversion to me.
“I’m sorry too,” she said, startling me a bit with how gentle she was being as she backed away a few more steps, putting a good three feet between us. Her head bowed, breaking the eye contact we had just moments before.
“Can we try to be friends then?” I offered, a small smile playing on my lips in the hopes it would, in turn, make her smile too.
Looking back up at me, she seemed bewildered by my question. Did she really think she wasn’t worthy of a friend? The idea was ludicrous. Everyone was worthy of friendship. Then, the main character of her novel popped back into my head. The heroine also didn’t consider herself worthy due to her physical deformity—didn’t want anyone to be stuck with her for all of eternity.
Sometimes, women were so utterly clueless. They always thought men only looked at their appearance. Didn’t they realize physical attraction was forever altered by personal
ity? No matter how beautiful the creature, a beast was only treated as such when their physical deformities altered their outlook on life.
Personality was everything. Beauty queens were bland to me, while I found the girl in the back of the library to be radiant.
Holding out her hand, she said, “Come. I want to show you something.”
Even though I was more confused than ever before with how quickly she seemed to shift her moods, I didn’t hesitate to put my hand in hers, allowing her to lead me from the room.
The Passion
Regardless of the fact she was a wolf-like female, her hand still felt dainty and feminine in my large grasp. She took her time as she led me up the stairs and to the right, keeping her skeptical eyes on me. It was as if she didn’t trust that I wanted to be her friend—her ally.
I hadn’t been to the room she was approaching, a set of French-style doors blocking my view to the space beyond. I had no idea what to expect, and a slight shiver of fear tingled up my spine at the recollection of noises I’d heard over the past few nights.
I knew I wasn’t afraid of Karoline, but the ferocious and destructive sounds she made during the night should’ve steered me otherwise. Many nights I sat up listening, wondering what the hell she was doing to cause such a ruckus. At times, I argued with myself whether I should go check on her, see if she was okay or needed an ear to bend. Self-preservation kept me from going through with it, but now I wished I’d made a different choice. Maybe all she needed all this time was a friend.
Never releasing my hand, she pushed the doors open with her other and revealed what was hidden behind their wooden confines. Bright sunlight assaulted my eyes, causing me to squint, stinging as they got used to the intensity. I could see specks of dust glittering in the space in front of me before my eyes finally adjusted and began to focus on my surroundings.
My jaw dropped at the sight.
My eyes roamed from floor to ceiling, every surface covered with nothing but books. Thousands of books. An involuntary gasp left my lips as I took it all in.
