5. Paige
Paige
A ries watches me while I work to put together a pair of pants large enough to accommodate his... size. I try not to notice the way his eyes track my movements like a predator watches prey, but even in stillness, he’s formidable.
It’s unnerving.
Maybe when he’s dressed, it’ll be easier. Because, as of now, my buffalo plaid throw blanket, while perfect for a night of couch sitting, is doing nothing to hide those damned delicious muscles. Hell, I’m surprised his dick fit behind it.
With precise movements, I position the fabric over the slide plate of my sewing machine.
Over my shoulder, Aries looms closer, clearly being nosy about exactly what I’m doing here.
I try to ignore him and focus on the project at hand.
When I press the pedal at my foot to activate the needle, Aries jumps.
“What is that thing?” he demands.
I toss him a look, trying not to laugh at the startled expression he wears. “It’s called a sewing machine.”
“This ...sewing machine,” he says, looking at the thing like it might jump up and bite him at any moment, “It makes clothing?”
“It made that jacket,” I tell him, gesturing to the dark coat hanging on the peg beside my front door.
“I see.” He frowns and goes back to merely staring over my shoulder while I work.
A moment later, I lift my foot off the pedal to reposition the fabric. In the silence, I can’t help but ask, “You don’t have machines where you come from?”
“Not like this. Ours do not make sounds like that. And we use needle and thread when we stitch clothing.”
His answer makes me wonder just how many modern amenities they’re going without in his world.
“And electricity? Do you have that?”
“What?”
“Light.” I gesture overhead to the fixture currently illuminating my tiny living room.
He frowns. “We have gas-powered lamps but none that stick to the ceiling.”
I can’t help picturing a world stuck in medieval times with total Middle Earth vibes and perfectly toned warriors running around, willing and ready to defend a lady’s honor. Clearly, reading human fiction is getting to me.
“What about running water?” I ask.
He stared at me. “Your water has legs? It can run like a man?”
I shake my head, a massively embarrassing snort escaping before I can stop it. Ducking my head, I turn back to the sewing machine.
“You must be very wealthy and important to have a fancy machine like this.”
I shoot him a wry look. “Neither, actually. I’m pretty much the lowest-ranking person here. I’m an intern.” At his blank look, I add, “A librarian.”
“A librarian.”
“That’s right. And if I don’t put you back into your book where you belong, I won’t even be that.” I pause, trying not to think too hard about what will happen to me if and when we’re caught.
“You really think I came out of a story?” His tone is mocking, and I can’t help but look up—straight into his enigmatic eyes. Buried in his dark gaze is wariness.
Right, like I’m the crazy one here.
I stand and stalk over to where his book is propped on the coffee table. Grabbing it, I march back to where he stands and hold it out.
“Here,” I say. “Take it.”
“For what purpose?”
“Read it. You can read, can’t you?”
“Of course, I can read,” he scoffs. “Everyone in Astronia is properly educated.” The way he snaps the words makes it clear I’ve offended him.
“How wonderful for you all. Earth is still working on that.”
He stares at me. For a second, I think he’s going to ask about the Earth part, but instead, he takes the book and opens it to the first page. Scanning quickly, I watch as his doubt transforms into shock.
When he looks up again, he doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “This story is about Astronia. The war... the hoard. My father defeated them, drove them out of our lands.” He flips pages, skimming sections in wonder. “It’s all here. Even me.” He looks awestruck. Dumbfounded.
It’s kind of surreal; watching a character from a book read his own story. It’s also expressly forbidden. But hey, we’ve come this far. When he looks up again, I can see that he believes me. Apparently, so much so that his next words make me instantly defensive. “You conjured me then.”
“Whoa, there, Mr. Practical Magic, I did no such thing.”
“But you are a witch?”
“No,” I say, trying to hide my discomfort at this particular line of questioning. “Well, probably not.”
His brow lifts, and I find myself explaining despite the fact that this kind of info isn’t exactly something I share with just anyone.
“I don’t know what I am, really. Twenty-five years ago, there was an incident here.
They call it the Extrication. Long story.
The point is, my book was destroyed but not before I was, well, extricated. ”
“You came from a story too?”
I nod.
“And your people?” he presses.
“Unfortunately, no one else from my world made it out, and so far, any supernatural abilities I may or may not possess have yet to make an appearance. Basically, we’re not sure what I am.”
“And you live here—in the library?”
“Above it, actually, but yes.” I spread my arms wide to encompass my apartment. “Home sweet home.”
“Alone?”
Something about the way he says it sends a tingle up my spine. Or, more accurately, up my thighs. Damn sexy-ass storybook hero.
“Yes,” I say, forcing my voice even.
“You do not worry about danger or intruders?”
Honey, you can intrude me anytime.
“The magic protecting this place is pretty tight.”
Tight, Paige, really?
“And if anything comes through” — comes? ? Ugh, Paige, stop it! — “the keepers take care of it.” I decide not to mention the gnomes. Or Bingo. My vow of secrecy has some boundaries. “Trust me, the Athenaeum can handle itself.”
“You speak of this place as if it is a living, breathing thing.”
“I guess it kind of is.” I hesitate because this kind of info can get a girl fired and memory-wiped for sure, but Aries deserves to know where he’s landed. “The Athenaeum is a library thought to be lost to the ages of time and destruction of war.”
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Secrecy is part of its protection. Some legends have called it the city of Atlantis. Other stories refer to it as the library of Alexandria. A few humans think they’ve cracked the code and now refer to it as the Akashic Records.
Anyway, basically, every story containing every world and creature and event ever to occur in the multi-verse has a place here. The sections are endless.”
“Sounds massive.”
I can’t help it, I glance at his junk barely covered by a buffalo plaid I’m not sure I’ll ever wash again. Okay. Now I’m grossing myself out .
When I look back at his face, his brow is lifted high.
So busted.
I clear my throat and continue. “The area I work in is sort of what you’d call a prison, I guess. The books there hold a horror that, if unleashed, would threaten your world or mine, or both.”
“And your job is to prevent that from happening.”
I sigh, deciding to just go for it and explain the full history. I mean, why not? We’ve come this far.
“When the library was first created, a millennia ago, maybe more, the magic bestowed upon it was ancient and powerful. That magic is a life force of its own and keeps the library from becoming known, breached, or otherwise from falling. No witch can scry for it, no sorcerer can conjure it, and no portal will open to it except for those who wield the mark of the library itself.”
“The library is its own well of power.”
“Exactly.”
He regards me carefully. “You truly did not conjure me then.”
I sigh. “Truly.”
I watch as his expression hardens into resolve. “In that case, we must find out what brought me here so we can learn how to return me to my world.”
“Or we can skip directly to the part where I send you back.”
“You say you don’t know how.”
“I don’t, but somewhere in this library is the answer, and I’m just the girl to find it.”
He doesn’t look convinced. And while I can’t blame him—right now, I’m just some random chick who is currently sewing him pants—I can’t help but be a little put off by his lack of confidence. Does no one believe in me? Then again, why the hell am I surprised? I don’t even believe in myself.
I finish off my current line of stitching and then hold up my masterpiece.
The sweatpants material was supposed to be for a matching set for myself—top and bottom.
But it’s barely enough for one pair of bottoms for Aries.
Still, stretchy waist, two leg holes that will hopefully cover his calves. .. they’ll do.
“Put these on,” I tell him, handing them over.
“What is it?” he asks, and I stop short at the horrified look he wears.
My brows lift. “Sweatpants.”
His gaze flicks to me. “I’ve offended you.”
“Look, I literally have nothing else to offer, and I am not sure my future self will agree, but I need you to cover yourself so I can look you in the eye.” He hesitates.
“They’re popular in this world, okay?” I usher him into my bedroom before he can insult my creative ability further and shut the door.
While Aries navigates human clothes, I head for the kitchen. Not that I have any idea what a dragon eats, but hopefully, it’s something frozen and laden with cheese because that’s about all I’ve got.
With the oven preheating for a frozen pizza, I whirl toward the fridge and stop short.
Aries stands in the kitchen doorway, the sweatpants riding low on his perfect hips.
My blanket is in his hand, but I can barely tear my eyes from the delicious “V” leading straight down to an area I would love to get up close and personal with.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
Mother of...
“It’s fine,” I practically pant the word. “It’s more than fine.” It’s fucking delicious.
I’m also aware I’ve just played right into the book boyfriend stereotype I snubbed my nose at earlier. Low-slung sweatpants below a perfectly shaped set of washboard abs? It doesn’t get more basic than that. And I can’t even be mad about it. Not now that I’m seeing it in the flesh.
“I can find something else,” he says uncertainly. I’ve been staring too long. I know it; I just can’t help it. He clears his throat. “Perhaps I should put this blanket back on—”
“No, no.” I wave him off. “It’s really fine. They look good.”
So, so good.
I swallow hard.
“Are you preparing a meal?”
His question yanks me out of the thirst trap I’m caught in, and I glance at the pizza I’ve yet to put in the oven.
“Yes, preparing a meal,” I say, trying to normalize my breathing as I go to work unwrapping the pizza. When that’s done, I grab a bottle of wine off the counter. I look up in time to see Aries frowning at it.
“I prefer ale with mine.”
“Oh, you prefer it, do you? I have White Claw and a bottle of Captain Morgan. Take your pick.”
His expression is actually kind of hilarious. “You drink claws?”
“For the love of... here.” I grab the bottle of rum from the cabinet and hand it over.
He doesn’t move to take it, and I roll my eyes, going for a glass.
When he has both, he uncaps the bottle and pours a double shot. I watch as he tips it back and gulps it. Before I can catch myself, I’m struck stupid by the sight of his throat moving around the liquid, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The amount of muscle in his throat alone is—
“Not bad. This Captain Morgan knows his ale.”
I snort. “That he does.”
When he refills the glass and offers it to me, I shrug. “When in Rome.”
His eyes narrow. “This is sarcasm.”
I swallow down the burning treat and grin. “Ah, so they have that in your world.”
When the pizza is done, we eat on the couch. Two slices for me and the rest for the, apparently, starving dragon.
“That was adequate,” he says when the last crumb has been consumed. At my expression, he grins. “Sarcasm.”
I toss my napkin at him. He catches it, but his smile turns serious.
“This has been an enjoyable evening, Paige.”
My cheeks heat for no good reason. “Thanks.”
“But the fact is I have a kingdom that needs me. And I very much would appreciate your help in getting me back there.”
Right.
“Look, I get it. This sucks for you.”
“It is not ideal,” he says carefully.
Not ideal. Must be a politician.
“But this isn’t something I can figure out in one day.”
“You said yourself the library will have the answers.”
“Sure, but we can’t just ask the question.”
“I don’t follow.”
I sigh. “What happened tonight—it's dangerous. If anyone finds out...”
“You will get into trouble.”
“Yes. But so will you.”
He straightens, his chest puffing out. “I can handle myself.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not challenging your obviously superior strength, okay? But the people that work here are literally sworn to do whatever necessary to keep the stories contained.”
“I’m not some story,” he scoffs. “I’m a living being.”
“You’re a threat,” I say, gentler now. “That’s how they will treat you.”
“I can take care of myself,” he repeats. “But for your safety, I will not provoke them. Yet.”
His words conjure images of another time, one I’m too young to remember but are nonetheless stamped inside my brain, thanks to Hoc’s stories.
“What is it?” he asks at my expression.
“Look, the only time anything like this has happened was the day I arrived.”
“This extrication business,” he supplies.
“Yes.”
“And that was very bad?”
“Very.”
“I don’t understand. You said you came from a story, and yet here you are, accepted as one of them.”
“I was an exception to the rule, believe me.” I don’t bother to point out that if I hadn’t been a helpless baby, Hoc probably would have ordered me killed too.
“And what is the rule?”
“Everything that escaped its book was hunted down—and destroyed.”