VENGEANCE IN HIS BED
With him occupied, I pulled out the book I had managed to slip away from the library.
The title ‘MINE’ was embossed in gold, though the letters were slightly worn as if they had been traced a thousand times.
I opened the first page, expecting a ledger or a cold list of assets. Instead, I found a confession.
The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and heavy with intent, like a chronicle of an obsession. Page after page, the author described a woman with a poetic, almost frightening reverence. He wrote about the way her hair caught the morning light, the specific, melodic pitch of her laugh, and the way she tasted like summer rain and secrets.
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