Chapter 5 The Orphanage

Seven years ago - Emília Gray 

I had known him for such a short time, yet there were already certain buttons in my body that seemed to be controlled by him.

As I followed him toward the orphanage, my stomach twisted, and I squirmed at the cold sensation of watching him from behind, his shadow trailing along with him.

My God.

I had never crossed the orphanage gates before. Not out of fear or anything like that, but because it wasn’t my place. Now someone was allowing me in—and that someone was the very person surrounded by the worst rumors, none of them kind.

God, my parents will kill me if they find out, was my internal conflict. But every time Dante turned to check if I was still following him, my demons won.

It felt right to walk with him.

"Do I scare you?"

His question cut through the air.

"Why are you asking that?"

"Your breathing is driving me insane, and I think God is getting annoyed with how many times you’ve called Him."

"Oh my God."

Dante looked at me and rolled his eyes dramatically.

"You need to have more confidence in yourself."

"I do."

"If you really don’t want to, you can leave."

"I don’t want to! I said I’d teach you, so I will."

"You haven’t promised me anything yet, Gray."

After walking for a while, we could see the silhouette of the white buildings that formed the orphanage. It wasn’t creepy or ominous like one might expect. It was inviting, actually—monochromatic, blending with the bluish sky and the white dots of clouds.

I shouldn’t have been surprised, but when I thought we were going through the main entrance, Dante pulled me toward a shortcut.

We stepped over plants and strange bugs until we reached an old brown wooden door.

What had seemed inviting now felt like a storage place for dead bodies.

"I’m not going to kidnap you," he said, pushing the door open as it creaked.

"I didn’t say anything."

"You thought it."

"Now you read minds?" I asked, annoyed.

"There’s no need when you’re more open than a prostitute’s legs."

Oh.

"You’ve seen a prostitute’s legs…?"

Dante looked at me with amusement and didn’t answer, letting out a nasal chuckle.

He wrapped his fingers around my cold wrist, creating a temperature contrast that sent a shock through my chest. I tried not to show any reaction, since he seemed to have some kind of ability to read my body.

I was starting to think people had mistaken a killer for a psychic.

We followed the narrow, dimly lit path. Thankfully, we reached our destination quickly, and my eyes widened in fascination at the size of the place.

"Wow."

That was all I could manage to say.

"I know you wanted to swear," Faulkner remarked, earning a grimace from me.

The library wasn’t large. The space was contained, with white walls that gave an illusion of openness, but the shelves defined its limits. What took my breath away were the packed bookcases, the strategically placed lamps casting a reddish glow, and the dark tones with antique decorations that made it feel like the Addams Family had designed it.

There were a few black wooden tables scattered around. Even the silence felt like a character among so many books.

"You like it?" he asked, close to my ear.

"It’s beautiful, but it feels a little abandoned," I said, stepping away.

"The orphans here don’t usually feel like reading."

"That’s a shame."

"We’re more concerned with thinking about our future than understanding a bunch of letters."

His bitter response stung.

"It’s more than just understanding."

His eyebrows lifted.

"Is there telepathy involved?" he mocked.

"No, idiot," I muttered, running my finger through the dust on a shelf. "Reading is an escape from what hurts you. My teacher always says that."

Dante smirked.

"She lied to you. Reading doesn’t help you escape anything. It corners you. Anything you use to hide from your problems and frustrations is pointless. It’ll only double the intensity. That’s why there are so many addicts. They’re fooled by thoughts like that."

I frowned, annoyed by his argument.

"You’re basically saying reading is a drug."

"Anything that hooks you is a drug."

I crossed my arms.

"For someone who can’t read, you have a lot of opinions about books."

To my surprise, Dante burst into laughter. The sound echoed loudly, shattering the air into something unexpectedly joyful. His laugh was dark and rough.

"Your mouth is a problem we’ll need to fix someday."

Idiot.

That was the only word in my head as I pulled out books and he judged my colored pencils.

He was calling me a problem? I wasn’t!

My parents loved me exactly because I was one of the few kids who caused trouble at school. I was an excellent student—even if I wasn’t the best violinist or pianist, I had some talent.

And I was great at golf. I beat all the old men in town.

He had no right to call me a problem.

Dante was the one who smelled like trouble.

"How long are you going to keep talking to yourself?"

I looked up.

"What? I don’t talk to myself."

"You mumble like you’re praying. It’s weird."

"You’re rude."

He raised an eyebrow, fingers lightly tapping the table.

I decided to grab the book instead of answering, but it didn’t help.

He stood up and slowly walked around the table until he reached me. I kept my eyes fixed on the book.

His scent filled my nose, and I wondered if I smelled as sweet and striking as he was intoxicating and addictive.

His chin brushed against the back of my neck, his breathing low and controlled—unlike mine, which pulled in too much air.

Then his hand slid over the pages, his finger pressing down on a line.

I flinched, pulling the bench away.

"Sit."

A laugh bubbled from him.

"Bossy."

He sat beside me, and even though I had moved away, Dante gave a strange half-smile and dragged my chair closer with one hand.

I let out a small yelp, startled. Even though he was thin, he was incredibly strong.

I gave up trying to keep distance. Faulkner clearly hated losing as much as he loved making me nervous.

"Why does your ridiculous school want you to read Shakespeare?"

"My school is not ridiculous. The teacher wants us to explore other classics. Shakespeare is one of them."

"What’s so special about him besides being romantic and tragic?"

"He’s not just romantic. He’s a lifestyle."

Dante sighed, bored.

"It’s nothing special."

"You only say that because you can’t read," I shot back, immediately regretting it—but Faulkner didn’t seem offended.

"Ouch. I’ll accept that."

"You’ll like it."

He shrugged.

"Then start."

I wondered why he had agreed to be there with me, to let me teach him, when he didn’t seem interested at all.

It was as if I had forced him.

"How do you want to do this?"

"You were the one who suggested it. So you choose."

Okay.

I was starting to get nervous.

"Do you want me to…?" He raised his eyebrows, waiting for me to finish. "…for you?"

I exhaled, hesitant. I was embarrassed to ask. I didn’t know. It didn’t feel wrong, but it also didn’t feel like something my parents would approve of.

The corner of his lips curled.

"What for me? I didn’t hear you. Repeat it."

I placed my hand flat on the book and avoided looking directly into his eyes.

"Do you want me to…" I swallowed. "…you?"

"Are you asking me to kiss you?"

"No!" I shouted, startled, pressing the book against my chest.

"Why are you swallowing your words? You don’t feed on them. Speak up." Dante pulled the chair even closer, his cologne settling into my senses, warming my cheeks. "Repeat it."

"Do you want me to share the book with you?!" I blurted out.

Dante examined me as I opened my eyes and saw confusion spreading across his face. I hated looking like a stupid child in front of him. I just wanted to be a pretty, smart, funny girl. But everything felt so strange.

"I know it’s obvious, but I wanted to make sure because I don’t want you to think I’m annoying and…" I started rambling, nervous that he might think I was an idiot.

But instead of paying attention to what I was saying, he grabbed my book and opened it. Then he turned it toward me, his finger pointing at something.

Letters.

P. U. L. C. H. R. A.

"You don’t know these letters?" I asked, still trembling.

"Pulchra."

"What are you saying?"

"It’s a word."

"One that clearly doesn’t exist."

Dante showed no reaction.

"Yeah. It doesn’t exist."

He tapped the book lightly. It was so strange knowing someone who couldn’t read or write, yet somehow felt like he understood more than I did.

Despite my confusion, I stored that moment away.

"Now you can read to me, but no weird voices."

I frowned.

"Weird voices?"

"Yes, Gray, weird voices. You look like the kind of kid who asks her parents to imitate a cow when they read you bedtime stories."

I turned red instantly, though for completely embarrassing reasons.

"My parents don’t read me bedtime stories!" I snapped. "And there are no cows in Romeo and Juliet!"

Dante laughed softly.

I shook my head, energy crackling through my veins.

Faulkner rested his head on the table, using his arms as support, his gaze fixed on me. My nerves tripped over my first words, but I managed to focus on my voice. Before I realized it, I was more affected by the prologue than by Dante’s uneven breathing.

"The events of this doomed love, and the rage of their parents, which only their children’s death could end, will now be told in the span of two hours."