Chapter 3
Paige
Bright and early the next morning, I grip the stack of papers in my hands like a lifeline.
Vanya Orlov, the sexy panther, sits across the library, his presence a dark shadow against the ornate backdrop of the archives. I don’t know when he arrived, but he seems right at home at one of the reading tables near the circulation desk.
I assumed after I rejected him yesterday, he wouldn’t bother returning.
I assumed wrong.
Here he is, the ant colony at my picnic. After stealing my pen.
His impeccably styled dark hair falls in gentle waves, showing off the silver stud in his ear. His suit hugs his form, transforming every line into a sharp and deliberate distraction. He’s a living statue of Adonis.
Worse, he knows how infuriatingly perfect he looks. How could he not when he holds himself with such predatory confidence?
My heart pounds a frantic rhythm that betrays my calm expression.
It’s like he’s tailor-made to disrupt the very routines I’ve worked tirelessly to maintain. That can’t happen. I refuse to let him shake the safety rails that I spent so long staking into the ground.
I’ll just ignore the smug bastard.
His eyes flicker toward me as he flips the page of an illustrated manuscript, and I realize he’s handling delicate material without wearing gloves.
Heat rises in my chest and up to my face as I gear up to rip the damn Russian a new one.
A slow smile stretches across his face when he meets my gaze.
Not worth it. He’s baiting you.
I inhale and count to five before spinning away.
I can’t let him get under my skin.
I’ve built these walls meticulously, brick by brick, yet somehow, he knows just where to strike. I might be a fortress, but he’s a relentless siege engine. If he sticks around much longer, I’ll eventually have to confront him.
Not yet, though.
Instead, I retreat behind my circulation desk and force myself to continue taking measured inhales and exhales to slow the too-quick rise and fall of my chest.
He’s just another library patron.
Maybe that flimsy lie can get me through the day.
He drifts through the stacks, pulling volumes to add to his table and building a barrier of books reminiscent of a hunting blind. He never glances up, instead leaving me to stew in uncertainty and compelling me to question my own authority.
He shouldn’t even be in here without a visitor’s pass.
The library is technically private property.
In the past, all members of the public needed an appointment to access the books, but we recently changed that policy.
Though, considering the fragile and irreplaceable artifacts in our collections need protection, I still retain the authority to restrict occupancy or entrance if I sense that someone has no legitimate reason for their visit or patronage.
As much as I dislike it, we also rarely enforce the visitor’s pass rule, because open access gives the library a better reputation. Raising a fuss over Vanya’s presence would only cause a scene.
I tell myself the pounding in my chest is anger. As long as I believe that, I can remain in control. After all, anger is familiar. And familiar is my comfort zone.
By noon, Vanya’s gravitated closer. He’s abandoned his barrier of books and left a mess for others to clean up.
Now I know how deer in headlights feel.
Frozen. Trembling. Waiting.
I’m tightly wound, a statue of nerves, quivering under the weight of my own anticipation.
Twice, I gather the courage to approach him, but members of the staff interrupt me. I’m torn between the urge to confront him and the fear of what doing so might unlock.
I’m certain he’s a scammer, and I’ve dealt with those—and relic hunters—before.
Still, Vanya’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.
With him, the stakes are infinitely high, though I can’t explain why. An undercurrent of violence lurks in the way he carries himself, as if he’s one breath away from unleashing chaos.
I know chaos.
It’s wind, storms, fire, and unseen shooters wreaking widespread collateral damage.
As Vanya stalks closer, contained but ready, he reminds me of that terrifying mayhem.
By one in the afternoon, my nerves are frayed.
Vanya leaves for lunch—I don’t allow visitors to remain when the staff is off the clock—but he returns the moment I unlock the doors.
He settles at a table to my left to read, but whenever I glance his way, his eyes bore into mine.
My heart leaps, and adrenaline floods my system.
He knows he affects me.
I see that awareness in his subtle but satisfied smile. Every time I walk by, his green, gold-flecked gaze rakes over me.
The realization that he’s toying with me crashes over me like a wave, widening the cracks in my walls.
As the hours pass and evening closes in, I try to focus on work, but Vanya’s movements seem engineered to draw my attention.
He stretches once just as I shift to look at him, his tailored white shirt pulling taut over his impeccably sculpted chest. His arms climb over his head, and his dress shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of lightly tanned skin and rock-hard abs.
My thighs clench as lust coils in my belly. I can’t remember the last time I had sex or even had a date. Two years ago? Three? Four?
Of course my sex-deprived body’s reacting to a pushy, absurdly attractive man.
I hate this.
He slides his laptop into its case, his fingers lingering on the leather as he stretches again like a big cat.
At the end of the night, I hover by the doors, waiting to lock them once the thorn in my side leaves. He saunters over with a slow, easy grace. When he stops beside me, I swear I can feel the heat radiating from him. I stare pointedly out the glass doors toward the parking lot.
Tension builds, like a gravitational pull that draws me in. Finally, our gazes meet.
His eyes are dark and intent.
I narrow mine, refusing to blink or look away.
He dips his chin, and in that single gesture, a world of meaning passes between us.
Nothing needs to be said. The silence is loud enough.
I’m coming for you…and you want me to.
His stare burns into my back like a brand as I lock up. When I spin around to face the dim parking lot, he’s gone.
The next day plays out much the same way.
As the hours pass by, control slips through my fingers like grains of sand.
Vanya follows me home, into my dreams. In half of them, I’m terrified, fleeing from eyes that spy on me in the darkness. The other half wake me, leaving me breathless and gasping for entirely different reasons.
On day three, I need to wind the threads of my sanity back into a ball while preparing for work.
My neck and shoulders pull tight like wires ready to snap as I pack my bag with machine-like precision.
The chaos can’t reach me if I remain centered. If I keep myself safe with my rules and routines.
I arrive early, my peaceful workspace now a battlefield.
Vanya Orlov struts through the doors on schedule, once again, and plants himself at a table across from the circulation desk, his leather folio centered on the glassy surface.
His pen, a basic black ballpoint, lies perfectly parallel to the edge.
I wonder, briefly, where my red pen has wandered off to.
And then I wonder what else he’s made disappear. Or is planning to…
Could he steal me too?
No. Absolutely not. I won’t let him.
He sits stick still with his hands folded while studying me with an unsettling calm. He doesn’t open the folio or glance at the documents on the table.
The silence stretches, coiling tightly around us.
I crack first. “Is there something I can help you with today, Professor Orlov? Perhaps you’re confused about the form I gave you?
Or about what’s required to be a patron of this private library?
” Stressing the word private, I pin him with my coldest stare.
My fingers betray me with their barely-present tremor, so I tuck them under my desk.
His smile unfurls like parchment. “Not at the moment, Ms. Kisner. I’m simply admiring the…architecture.” Hazel eyes peruse my body before jumping to the crown molding and hand-carved designs in the plaster of the ceiling.
I know he’s not referring to the building. My heart races, and blood rushes through my ears. I scramble to hide behind my fortress of rules and regulations, but the gate’s ajar, and I didn’t even realize.
I’ve named him, acknowledged him, and let him slip through the first line of defense.
A tactical mistake.
I shore myself up, nailing boards to the fences. “If you’d like information on Neoclassical style, you can find plenty of books in our Architecture section.” I point to the back-right corner of the library. “All the way over there.”
He stands and approaches the desk. “Could you show me?”
I clench both hands on my lap, out of Vanya’s sight. “I’m afraid I’m far too busy, Professor Orlov.”
He tilts his head, his silver stud earring glinting in the sunlight streaming in from the windows. Fresh citrus wafts from his suit jacket, a refined, expensive scent that reminds me of summer.
“Thank you for the recommendation, Ms. Kisner.” He says my name like a prayer, the “r” rolling subtly and the “s” hissing out on his tongue.
Like a snake.
He glides away, trailing his fingers along the length of my desk while fixing his stare at the wall.
My skin crawls as I watch his back.
I just survived some quiet battle, though I’m not sure I won.
The hours drag on, each tick of the clock amplifying my unease.
I count every hairline fracture in my composure. Two misfiled books, a spelling error on a transfer form, using the wrong ink on my daily records. Each mistake eats at my fraying nerves. I never mess up when I follow my routine. That’s the whole reason I have one.
The blunders spark shame that winds through my body, ringing in my teeth and clawing at my stomach. I’m built for control, for precision, and I’m failing.
That terrifies me.
I stay immersed in my work, but the silence gnaws at me, stripping away my defenses.