Fancy Book Spine 소설 & 이야기

I shrugged and continued looking for a book while casually listening to their phone call. I pulled a book where the spine was obviously ancient with no title listed. Either there was never a title on the spine, or it wore off with time. I don’t know why but I felt this book might have something worthwhile. Carefully I climbed back down with the cumbersome book in my arm.

And then, as though it had been waiting for me all along, my gaze landed on a large, old book resting on a shelf near the far corner. The spine was thick and heavy, the title embossed in faded gold letters. The Book of Alphas. My breath caught in my throat. The words themselves felt heavy, like they carried a weight far beyond their simple meaning. It wasn’t just any book. No, this was something important, something significant.

Nothing major, just something to drive him the teeniest bit crazy. Like how she leaves books laying on the coffee table, opened and face down to mark her place, rather than using the bookmark that is tucked in between the last few pages for safe keeping. He sees the multicolored tassel hanging down and yet she persists in laying the book down to mark her place, messing with the spine of the book. And to make matters worse, all of her books are wrapped up in those colorful book covers that young school girls put on their textbooks to make them feel prettier. He can imagine that she has the holographic notebook and the scented glitter pens to match.

I wandered aimlessly between the rows of shelves, the soft shuffle of my shoes the only sound I could hear. The quiet was nice. It gave me space to breathe, to think. Eventually, I found myself in front of the romance section. The spines of the books were a rainbow of colors, each one promising a different kind of love story. My fingers skimmed across the titles until they stopped on a green book with a particularly beautiful cover. I pulled the book from the shelf, feeling the weight of it in my hands. The cover was soft beneath my fingertips, almost velvety. It was stunning, the kind of book you’d want to display on a shelf just to admire. The title, "BE MINE," was written in elegant gold

A smaller cupboard had an array of trinkets that seemed important. I couldn’t help it, my curiosity getting the better of me, and I padded over to one of the shelves. The books were organized with the utmost care; some had titles, but for some therewere no labels or titles on the spines. I ran my fingers over the edges of the leather-bound volumes, the feeling of it sending shivers down my spine. It was almost too good to be true and left me wondering how long it would take to read all these books, if Zarek had read them all or was it just here to get a scope.

Just expensive furniture and abstract art that looked chosen to impress rather than express. I passed through the living room, my attention drawn to a large bookshelf covering one wall. The collection impressed me—ancient texts on pack history, rare volumes on wolf magic, modern novels organized by genre rather than author. Many of the books looked unread, their spines uncreased. One leather-bound book caught my eye—its dark cover embossed with strange symbols that resembled no language I recognized. I reached for it, but it refused to budge. Odd. I tried again, pulling harder. The book remained firmly in place, as if glued to the shelf.

It drives me mad. I close the book. I hold it in my hands. It feels heavy. Heavier than a notebook should be. I turn it over. I look at the spine. It is old leather, cracked and peeling. But it is thick. Stiff. I press my thumb into the leather. It doesn't give. Books have hollows in the spine to let the pages turn. This one feels solid. I reach into my pocket. I pull out a small sewing kit I stole from the laundry room. I take out the seam ripper.

Jaw-dropping. Ignoring Lysander, I descended the stairs, running my palm along the smooth wooden banister. I’d seen magazine pictures of magnificent libraries before, in various locations in Europe, but never one in real life. The ceiling was bewitched, showing a moving scene of brewing storm clouds. A huge, circular rug covered most of the wood floor. I had no doubt I could spend the rest of my life in here and be happy. I skimmed my fingertips over the spines on the nearest shelf. The books were organized into collections. One set of colored spines would end and a different one would begin. I inhaled deeply, rewarded with the dry musk scent of old paper and hardback casings.

A temporary hiding place before we inevitably end up where we always do contemporary and queer romance. Our natural habitat. I pick up a book with a massive dragon painted across the cover and slowly rotate it in my hands. Fantasy covers go hard. The artwork is ridiculous in the best way. Every scale on the dragon has been illustrated with obsessive detail. Blue melting into green, green into purple, purple streaked with gold. The colors swirl like magic itself spilled across the page. It’s so beautiful it almost hurts to look at. My lips wobble slightly. “I like him so much,” I whisper.

Sinclair watching us lazily from his seat on the couch, his protruded cock still bobbing as he puffed on his cigar. His eyes met mine and he smirked. Something about how sensual it was made my stomach tickle. He crushed the butt of his cigar on the ashtray, still holding my gaze. He poured whiskey slowly into a glass cup, and my eyes flickered his fingers closed round the glass as he swirled the liquid slowly, and brought it to his lips. When I looked up, his eyes were still holding mine down, black with lust. His gaze flickered down to my breasts, and my stomach kicked when he bit his lips.