Penguin Classics The Count Of Monte Cristo Novels & Stories

Sitting on the leather sofa quietly, alone in the chamber, Aurora stared at two glasses of water placed on the desk in front of her. She took a glance at the closed door, listening for any sound of movements outside. Quiet. Without hesitation, she strode to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves covering the whole wall in the living room. Shelf seven, the bottom layer, The Count of Monte Cristo. Aurora quickly located the book and flipped the pages until she found a small brown bottle of liquid placed in a square hollow among the pages.

Except for Jack London, who they made us read at Moon Lake school, I’ve never heard of these guys. I have no idea why we’re talking about books, but it’s something to think about besides our ugly past and being poisoned and panic attacks, so I grab on with both hands. “What did he write?” “Who? Dumas?” “Sure.” “Uh. The Three Musketeers. The Count of Monte Cristo. The Man in the Iron Mask.” “What’s it about?” “The Man in the Iron Mask?” “Yeah.” I don’t care. I can just breathe better when he’s talking. His voice is nice. Deep and gruff and rumbly and not scared.

*** 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?”

Peaceful. Vespera Hale walked along the mahogany shelves, trailing her fingers over the spines of the books. Philosophy. Strategy. History. She stopped. On a shelf at eye level, nestled between The Art of War and a first edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, was a book she didn't recognize. It had no dust jacket. The binding was matte black, textured like volcanic rock. The lettering on the spine was silver, sharp and angular. SAVAGE REBORN.

She couldn't afford to waste time searching. "There's a bookshelf on the east wall," Connor said, his eyes meeting hers. "Third shelf from the top. Look for a copy of 'The Count of Monte Cristo.' It's an old edition, leather-bound, kind of falling apart. The stamp is hidden inside a hollowed-out section in the middle of the book." Kyla couldn't help the slight smirk that crossed her face. "Classic. Very dramatic." "I thought it was fitting," Connor replied, and for just a moment, there was a flash of the old him. The charming, slightly smug Connor she'd first met, before everything got complicated and messy and deadly.