The Count Of Monte Cristo Book Reviews Novels & Stories

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.

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.

*** 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?”

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.

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.