Books For Him Novels & Stories

"Certainly." His answer was short and cold as always, but he was walking to his bookshelf and gave me a large dusty book within moments. "You will find him here, also his nemesis and his angelic mate." He didn't say anything more, he just leave with the book to me and was back to his own busy self stirring his cauldron and adding more ingredient into the mix. So there I was for the next two hours reading about his life, from there I had learned that his insecurities runs deeper than I thought. Honestly, I didn't even know if I could handle him after reading the book.

I start talking to him about the books he loves, his favorite, did he already read that or this, I was hyped up by knowing that he is an introvert. And as I talk to him, I found out that he doesn't actually have friends. As an introvert, he loves to be alone and spent his time reading, than to spent his time on nonsense things. Also, I found out that we have the same favorite author, William Shakespeare, and J.K Rowling. He is also a reader of Erik Larson and Lang Leav. He said that the Khunsthaus Zurich is a perfect place for someone like him. A place is full of artworks with a huge library with towering shelves full of books.

Thanks for reading ❤️‼️ Hope you enjoyed the chapter ❤️‼️ If you haven't already check out my book HIS

he said on the third night after I eyed his ritual, unsure why he even bothered shelving them when his thirst for reading kept them shelved for maybe two nights at most. “How often do you get new books?” I had asked. “Monthly.” He pointed at a stack of brown boxes at the far end of the shelves; the most recent delivery, I supposed. “Do you have a favorite?” He grinned and eyed me. “History. Medicine. Politics.” The hairs had risen on the back as soon as the words had come out. Was he messing with me? “Interesting… interests,” I managed after a long moment. I stood from my arm chair and made my way to the kitchen, aiming for some water as my throat had become suddenly dry.

My stomach does something stupid. "That’s funny, because I keep tabs on matchmakers who used to be FBI." His face shifts, but only slightly. Just enough for me to notice. I get up to stretch, giving myself a tour of the bookshelf. There are titles in several languages, a few first editions, a dog-eared copy of The Art of War tucked behind a book on modern negotiation theory. "Is that for work?" I tease, gesturing. "That’s for everything," he deadpans.

But I didn’t care. He’s my fiancé… and I’m completely addicted to him.

Anything but sitting in silence with his brother’s hoodie on his lap. The room smells like warm electronics and coffee that’s been reheated too many times. A rain jacket drips from the back of his chair. Tap. Tap. Tap. Outside, Seattle stays gray and damp, like the sky never fully commits to day. On his screen, a waveform stretches across the timeline. His voice, steady. Another voice, distorted. The small dead spaces where he stopped talking because grief got too close to the mic. He drags the playhead back and hits play.

While I was checking on the development of my work, he asked, "Do you read a lot of books?" I turned around to see him looking through my bookshelf. "Yes! I like reading as much as I love writing." "You have a lot of comics here," he continued. "If you want to browse through it, I have a very good collection. You can take whatever books you like." Sh*t! Without thinking, I stated that he despises books. How is he going to react to that? Is he going to smile as if nothing happened, as he did to his sister? "Thank you for the offer, but I'm not interested in literature."

Our family was complete in that picture. Once inside, he went to one of the bookshelves that were always locked. I was curious about what was inside. He took a key from a drawer and unlocked the bookshelf. He opened it, and I saw many books inside it. What is so special about those books that it needs to be locked up? “This, Baby girl,” he gestured to the books, “are my journals.” “You have journals too?” I was surprised. He didn't seem the type who wrote journals.

Much like he'd looked as he had stood on Carrie's porch watching the clouds slowly travel across the sky while calmly sipping his coffee despite the chaos going on around him. Ben returned carrying a load of books in his arms. He heaved the heavy books onto the table before me. I looked down and was surprised at what I saw there. I didn’t know what I had expected. With all that had happened, I had envisioned fantasies of witchcraft, vampirism, mutants, and numerous other explanations involving mythological figures but this I hadn’t anticipated. At the very top of the considerable pile of books lay the King James Bible. “Just the tip of the iceberg, baby.” Richard said as he looked at me and