Books Similar To Count Of Monte Cristo Novels & Stories

I guessed that the worry that the noises in my head would sometimes catch up with me, was increasing my blood pressure. I was in their room reading the book Le Count De Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. When the door flung open quietly, Alfred peaked his head in, I guessed he thought I was going to be asleep. "You should be resting?" He slid his hands deep into his pockets. His lips turned into a smirk but I tried to ignore it. It was difficult because I found his looks to be captivating in some way. The way he stared at me, aroused me and he was quite aware, yet he continued to be his natural self and taunts me with my desires.

Chloe went and took a bath in the Jacuzzi and pulled a book down from Kyle's bookshelf against the wall near the sitting area. The Count of Monte Cristo, she had never read it, but Nicki Moulton had told her she should have several times, it was one of his favorites.

Most were about history, leadership, strategy. But there were a few that surprised me. Poetry. Classic literature. A worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. I smiled despite everything. Xavier reading poetry felt… unexpected. I pulled the poetry book out. Flipped through it. Some pages were dog-eared. Lines underlined. “The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” My throat tightened. I put the book back so fast you would think it burned me. Then I moved to his desk.

You roll your eyes before flicking through the pages of the item. A handsome look flashes before your eyes but you're left unfazed as you read through their bio. You can't believe you've abandoned your mission on waking up the sleeping girl beside you and engage your anti-social self to this world of nonsense. "What am I even doing." You mutter to yourself in disbelief. There's this part of a page where it's flipped flat in half. Lisa probably wanted to read it later or something. And thus. Your interest's been caught by the alluring sticky web of curiosity.

I took a moment to rest my forehead against the cool glass and collect myself before I forced my trembling legs to take me back to the main part of the house to find Godwin. I jumped with each thunderous boom that rattled its path through the trees from the far side of the mountain as memories of Michael stepping over the head of a decapitated vampire, him kicking Godwin’s lifeless body before biting a chunk of meat from his leg, and the horrific scene of Cindy being brutally raped took turns playing in my head. I had myself so worked up with worry over what might happen if Michael returned and managed to get into the house that I was a paranoid basket case by the time Godwin and I reunited

CASSANDRA The pulsing between my thighs just won’t go away. It’s been there since my lesson yesterday with Rhett, along with a tingling sensation like I’ve been transformed into a bubbling can of lemon seltzer. I press my legs together as I lounge on the green velvet chaise in my room. I’m reading a book Clarisse brought me from the outside world. It’s a romance novel entitledBuilt from Stoneabout a girl who goes hiking and gets caught in a storm, only to be rescued by a rough mountain man who takes her home to his cabin where…thingshappen.

Resting in the center of the table was a leather-bound book, an expensive silk bookmark resting between its pages. I didn't even need to look at the title. I already knew. I reached out and flipped it open to where the silk ribbon lay. It was the beginning of chapter four. The Count of Monte Cristo. I stumbled backward, bumping hard into the leather armchair. The chair was upholstered in a velvet. The exact texture I loved to run my hands over. "Oh my god." I breathed. It felt suffocating. Elena stepped into the library, her eyes darting from the book on the table to my pale, terrified face. "Mila... what is it? What's wrong?"

She was wearing pajamas and a cardigan, her hair loose around her shoulders. "You scared me," I said, pressing a hand to my racing heart. "Sorry," Natasha said, not looking particularly sorry. "I've been up for hours. Jet lag from all the moving around, I think. Or just... everything." She gestured to the chair across from her. "Join me?" I sat down, tucking my legs underneath me. "What are you reading?" Natasha held up the book so I could see the spine. The Count of Monte Cristo. "Seemed appropriate. A story about revenge and redemption and whether the two can ever really coexist."

It’s the first real smell in the entire place. And books. Hundreds of them. Not decorator books arranged by color. Real books. Worn spines. Dog-eared pages. I run my fingers along the shelves. Financial theory. Biographies of Carnegie and Rockefeller. Philosophy. History. And fiction. I pull out a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. The spine creaks. Pages are yellowed, soft as cloth. I flip through and stop at the margin notes inked in neat, sharp handwriting. "Revenge consumes the avenger," written next to a passage about Edmond Dantès.

*** We spent the afternoon at the bookstore down the street, because of course Alessio had to prove that he could, in fact, pick a better novel than I could. He was wrong. Obviously. “You can’t seriously think this is better than Austen,” I said, holding up my book in triumph. Alessio crossed his arms, giving me that infuriating smirk. “Rosa, The Count of Monte Cristo is a masterpiece.” “It’s long.” “It’s revenge.” I snorted. “Why am I not surprised?” His smirk widened. “What can I say? I have a type.” I arched a brow. “And what type is that?”