Free Bending Bethany by Aria Cole

inside me I wasn’t sure were still moveable.
    A rush of blood through my ears blocks out the music and ambient sounds of the club. Heat radiates from my core and I’m drawn into a vortex of something long forgotten. I want her in ways I didn’t realize I could want. Some primal part of me stirs and I know what I’ve been waiting for is right here.
    Right now.
    Now I have to go and make sure she knows she’s claimed.

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Enjoy an extended excerpt of my bestselling modern fairytales Black and White!

    BLACK
    ARIA COLE

    One
    Maxwell

    I gazed out the crystalline windows from a dark corner in the quaint library, taking in the vibrant green of the town common and the gently lapping waves of the aqua lake beyond. My eyes took in the silvered sparkle of sunlight highlighting each small crest before it kissed the shore and receded back again. My thoughts spun away with me as I watched, feeling anxious as I hid away in this tiny upstate town, watching the world from this tiny library window.
    I’d spent summers swimming in that lake, the two months of the year it was warm enough for swimming. I remembered the warmth caressing my skin and sending jolts of vitamin D energy running through my cells. Playing catch and running improvised bases in the town common as a boy. I remembered those days so fondly, but fear had strangled pleasure these last few years and chained me like a beast in the cellar.
    I loved this library more than myself. My life was imprinted into the inky pages of these hardbacks. My heart came alive as I passed through the aisles, my fingers ghosting along the dusty covers. I liked being locked up here. At least most days. Human contact was best kept at minimum; I’d quickly come to realize that. Sitting up here alone in my palace suited me. I paid the bag boy to deliver my food. I scheduled the mail to come directly to my steps instead of the post office box. I didn’t do gatherings, holidays were pointless as I didn’t have anyone to spend them with, and Sunday afternoons in the park were in the far distant past.
    I missed the sunlight on my skin all afternoon, bronzing the body and easing away the anxiety. But after that night—the night that changed my life and left me with so many scars, visible and internal—I hadn’t been able to step outside in public for fear of the shame. The ridicule. The flat-out gawking. Call it what you like, but I wasn’t one for subjecting myself to judgment, and the people in this town had stockpiles of it.
    I might have grown up here, I might have been the town’s golden boy at one time, but not anymore.
    Now I was the moody bastard that lived above the library and had a fucking panic attack every time I left the castle. Every time I descended those three steps, flashbacks overtook me, my heart raced and my palms tingled, and a sense of revenge so large hit me it was nearly debilitating. The only time I saw anyone was when they came into my library. Human contact was best in minimal doses. I allowed people into my sanctuary in very controlled doses, from nine to four each day, and never on weekends. Small talk with the librarian strongly discouraged.
    Thankfully, I didn’t need to announce that last part. The scar did that for me.
    I ran a finger across the worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo I kept at my desk. Not a library book, but mine. A treasured edition. Books were the only things that had been with me through it all. I’d never found solace in people; I’d found nothing but pain and betrayal and lies. Books provided shelter and support and encouragement.
    Once in a great while, I allowed myself the privilege of sitting out on the small stoop of the library when the sun was shining bright and only first thing in the morning, before the rest of the town awoke. But despite my disdain for people, I loved sharing books. Sharing the written