Chapter 3 #2
Vanya idles, practically daring me to approach him, to get close enough to chase him out without causing a scene.
And it will be a scene, because he’s ingratiated himself with every other patron and staff member. All day long, they ooh and ahh and can’t stop complimenting that “handsome young Russian professor.”
The day slips by. When it’s nearly time to lock the doors, I prepare to rise and tell him to leave. Before I can, he approaches my desk. I grit my teeth, eager to remind him he’s not a member and needs to get his ass out.
Then he carefully sets the red pen down on the desk.
The Lamy Safari fountain pen that I bought to celebrate getting this job is one of the few indulgences I’ve allowed myself in years.
His fingers linger, challenging me to react. “I’m returning this.”
My breath catches in my throat as I gawk at the pen. My muscles tense, and alarm bells shriek in my head.
Fight or flight? I haven’t decided yet.
He stirs my cup of colored pens, revealing the gold cuff link on his wrist. “I’ve noticed something.” His accent thickens, the consonants becoming harsh and strong. “You use different colored pens for different tasks.”
I don’t answer, but I can feel the flush creeping up my throat.
I’ve never had someone read me the way he does.
I’ve never been so exposed.
If he’d bothered to study the books with the same intensity he’s using on me, he’d have already cycled through the whole library and found at least five in our collection referencing greedy tsars.
The particular one he wants happens to be in a box in the acquisitions room, waiting to be catalogued, but I’m not about to tell Vanya that.
The upside of having a photographic memory is that I remember every word I’ve ever read.
The downside is that I’ll never forget the exact expression on my dead mother’s face as she lay on the ground. Every rip in her clothing. Every drop of blood on her skin.
“You know what I think?” Vanya edges into my personal space, interrupting my memories. “The blue ink is for things you approve of. Things that meet your standards. Or maybe that’s the green.”
My gaze drifts, pausing on his expressive mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to his eyes.
“The red…” He taps the pen he returned, the one I haven’t dared to pick up.
“I’m guessing that’s for disapproval. For the things that don’t measure up.
” He cocks his head and that damn earring catches the light again.
“But you rarely approve anything on a first pass, which is why the red pen resides over your ear most days.”
How does he know that when we’ve barely shared an entire conversation? I hate how easily this perfect stranger understands me.
I hate how my insides melt under that molten gaze.
This needs to end.
Immediately.
The tension in my shoulders snaps as I pull them back, tilt up my chin, and project all the authority I have left in me. “I’ve been lenient with you, Professor Orlov. But as I already informed you, until the paperwork is completed, you need to leave.”
The cocky bastard simply smiles, blinking like my words surprise him.
“I don’t have time to waste with your nonsense anymore.” I scan the room. “We’re very, very busy.”
Three patrons sit lost in their own worlds, while Lacey, my newest junior archivist, dozes at a cart. In reality, this place is a near-empty cathedral of quiet order.
Still, turmoil swirls around me.
And Vanya knows. His lips quirk in a devil’s smile, prompting my heart to race and for heat to coil deep in my stomach.
Those lips part, his tongue flicking out to wet them. “Why?”
I blink, forcing my focus back to his eyes. “Excuse me?”
“Why have you been lenient with me?” The intensity of his gaze keeps me captive.
Because the library doesn’t actually care if you have a reason to be here, as long as you behave. Because everyone else freaking adores you, and I don’t want to look like a frigid bitch just because I can’t follow along.
That’s what I’ve told myself over the past few days.
But I know the real reason, and I think he does too.
Because I love the way your attention feels on my skin. I like when you smile at me, even though I know it’s a facade.
I like how you test me when everyone else steers clear.
Our eyes stay locked, and the silence tightens like a noose. The current between us crackles with unspoken comprehension.
Finally, he reaches into his bag with deliberate calm and places a stack of papers on the counter. “The request form. All filled out.” He taps his index finger against the top sheet. “In blue ink. I hope these meet your standards.”
I peer down at his hand, once again eyeing the jagged scars across his knuckles. They’re so faint that most probably wouldn’t notice, but I couldn’t miss them. Pale lines crisscross his flesh, remnants of past battles that belie the story he’s given.
“I’ll process these immediately.”
As I accept the papers, my fingers brush his. Electricity sparks between us and travels straight to my spine. Somehow, I manage to swallow an incredulous gasp.
Even that feels like a small victory. He can guess, but he’ll never know for sure just what the sensation of his fingers on mine does to me.
Who knows what these hands have done? Or what they could do to me?
Would they be warm as he dragged them over my skin? Or would I shiver under his touch? Would his mouth follow his fingers, tracing pleasure over my body while those captivating eyes peered into my soul?
I jerk out of my thoughts, clutching the papers to my chest. When I glance up, Vanya’s still in front of me, staring as if he’s telepathic.
Shit.
I hold his gaze defiantly, praying my face doesn’t betray my recent thoughts.
He studies me for a few more seconds, then his lips curve in a half-smile. “Good evening, Ms. Kisner.”
I don’t exhale until he leaves.
When I finally fall asleep that night, I dream about those talented lips and hands.
By Saturday morning, though, I’m consumed by what I want to do with my own hands.
Strangle a certain Russian annoyance.
I’ve endured four days of this torment, and I’ve officially reached my limit.
I hate how the air prickles with static when he struts by, like the atmosphere itself bends to acknowledge him. I loathe how his hammered-gold eyes sweep the room with shrewd intelligence, missing nothing, including my attempts to avoid him.
Most of all, I can’t stand the treacherous anticipation that whispers through me every morning when I imagine what new, personal hell Vanya Orlov has in store. What strange feelings he’ll awaken in me.
I track his movement from my vantage point between the medieval manuscripts and the climate-controlled glass cases.
This visit, he’s not even pretending to research or read.
He leans against the service desk run by junior staff, one elbow propped on the polished oak, his navy suit jacket unbuttoned just enough to suggest casual confidence.
His body language screams ownership of the space around him.
His voice drops to that infuriating murmur.
While I can’t catch the words, I can see their effect rippling across my staff like wind through wheat.
Three of my junior archivists—professionals with degrees and specialized training—giggle. They actually giggle like schoolgirls passing notes about the cute new transfer student.
My fingers tighten around the spine of a sixteenth-century pharmacological text, my knuckles whitening.
Marianne keeps twirling a black curl around her finger. Rebecca hasn’t blinked in approximately forty-five seconds. Lacey leans so far forward over the counter that I fear for her vertebral integrity.
I catalogue my own reaction with the same ruthless attention to detail I apply to rare manuscripts.
The tension in my jaw? Professional concern.
The hollow ache beneath my sternum? Administrative anxiety.
The heat crawling up my neck? Simple irritation at workplace disruption.
Not jealousy…please. This is outrage.
My staff should be working, not milking the clock while flirting with this pain in the ass Russian.
Seeing how effortlessly he enthralls other women, how his smile seems to illuminate them from within, cuts deep inside me.
In my meticulous mental filing system, this particular physical ache defies categorization.
Because I can’t be feeling what I fear I am.
Attraction, especially to someone like Vanya, is too ridiculous to contemplate.
And too dangerous. I cannot—will not—let myself go down that road again.
I shift a few aisles closer, observing from between the tomes.
“I’m looking for a very specific quote. From an old Russian manuscript, possibly. I was told I might find it here.” When he holds out a piece of paper, they all lean over him to read it.
The juniors exchange glances, their expressions shifting from enchantment to uncertainty. Not one of them has been here long enough to know our collections as intimately as I do.
I should intervene. I don’t.
“We’ve acquired quite a few books over the past year.” Marianne’s fingers still twist in her hair, her rouge lips pursing as she hums. “Purchases, donations, and bequests are all still being sorted. It’s been a busy time for Special Collections.”
A cheery Rebecca, her green eyes wide, nods, her red ponytail bouncing at the back of her head.
“We’re behind on accessioning and cataloguing too.
Budget cuts. You know how it is.” She laughs like they’re sharing an inside joke about library funding, as if he would have the faintest understanding of our perpetual fiscal struggles.
His suit probably cost a month’s wages around here, if not more.
Lacey, barely three weeks into her position, practically leans on his arm, her ample chest brushing his jacket.
“I can check our recent acquisition logs for you, though! I’ve been working on the Russian materials, actually.
” She grins, her eyelashes fluttering against her tanned cheeks.
“If it came in within the last six months, I might recognize it.”
He offers her a smile that could melt the polar ice caps.
It’s the same smile he gifted me that first day, before I proved resistant to his charms. His entire face transforms, softening the sharp edges of his cheekbones and crinkling the corners of those calculating eyes until they almost look sincere.
“You would do that for me? That’s incredibly kind.” His fingers graze Lacey’s as he takes back the slip of paper and pulls out a pen to write on the back of it. “Here’s my number. If you find anything at all…”
That’s it.
This is my domain. My people. He’s not allowed access to those books, not until after he’s been background checked, vetted, and verified. I didn’t file the paperwork yet and have no intention of doing so. Or of getting him a library card, for that matter.
He’s corrupting everything and everyone with his presence, his charisma, his…
I have no words to describe what he’s doing wrong, exactly. I just have the tittering of grown women with advanced degrees, the prickle of my skin, and this ridiculous, traitorous disappointment that his attention has wandered from me to easier targets.
My sensible shoes are soundless on the marble floor as I abandon my hiding place. I’ve learned to exist silently within my sacred space, a skill that lets me surprise even an apex predator like Vanya Orlov.
I grab his arm, my fingers closing around the solid muscle beneath the fine wool.
A jolt of electricity races up my arm and settles somewhere beneath my ribs. I hold fast, ignoring my racing heart.
I haven’t had this much contact with another human in years.
He tenses and pivots to face me in a smooth, controlled motion. The corner of his lips lift in victory.
Arrogant bastard.
He forced my hand. Forced me to touch him, to acknowledge his existence in a way I’ve managed to avoid for days before this.
I’m too pissed to care. “Excuse us. Professor Orlov needs specialized assistance.” I tug him away from the service desk, maintaining my grip on his arm the entire time. I can feel my wide-eyed junior staff gawking over their rigidly controlled supervisor’s unprecedented behavior.
I. Don’t. Care.
Something has to give. He’s overstepped every boundary, so I’m finally putting a stop to this nonsense.
“Come here.” I drag him into the silent, shadowed stacks where tall shelves of leather-bound volumes create a small cone of privacy.
Where no one will witness whatever happens next.