Chapter 2
two
Charlie
I'm reorganizing the romance section for the third time this morning because I absolutely cannot stop thinking about Marshall Le Croix.
He's nothing like the men in my books. They're all polished billionaires in thousand-dollar suits or rakish dukes with perfect hair and impeccable manners.
Marshall looks like he could build an entire house with his bare hands and then kill someone with the leftover lumber if they pissed him off badly enough.
He's got scars on his knuckles and eyes that see far too much, and when he used that commanding voice yesterday, something inside me just melted.
"Alphabetical, Charlotte," I mutter to myself, shoving "Bound by the Bratva" back where it belongs between "Boss" and "Breaking.”. “You have a master's degree in library science."
I moved to Darkmore three months ago to escape Dylan - my ex who liked to make me feel small in all the wrong ways.
He controlled what I ate, who I talked to, how I dressed, when I could see my family, what books I was allowed to read.
Nothing was ever good enough. I was never good enough.
The library here is my sanctuary, my safe space.
Mrs. Henderson retired and they desperately needed an assistant librarian. Perfect timing. Perfect escape.
And I've been carefully curating what I call the "special collection", aka spicy romances for the more adventurous readers. I keep them in the back room, far away from the regular romance section where our more conservative patrons might stumble across them and have an actual heart attack.
Which is where I am when Marshall Le Croix walks in at exactly 7 PM.
"You're here," I say, and immediately want to kick myself for how stupid that sounds.
"Said I would be." He's wearing dark jeans and a flannel shirt that makes him look like a sexy lumberjack. He looks around the back room with those observant eyes of his, taking in my carefully organized shelves. "This your secret stash?"
"It's not secret! It's just... curated. For specific patrons who appreciate the genre and request more explicit content."
He pulls out a book at random, reading the spine slowly. "Training His Baby Girl." His eyebrow raises in a way that makes my stomach flip. "Very specific genre indeed."
"That's actually quite popular! The power dynamics are very well written and the character development is actually quite nuanced for the genre and the author does an excellent job of—"
"You've read it." It's not a question. It's a statement of fact.
My face burns hot enough to set off the fire alarm. "I have to know the collection. It's part of my job."
"Which one's your favorite?"
The question hangs between us like a live wire, dangerous and crackling with electricity.
I can't answer. Can't tell this intimidating mountain man that I lie in bed at night reading about rules and structure and dominance, touching myself while imagining someone calling me "good girl" and meaning it.
"We should start our book club," I say instead, my voice coming out higher and squeakier than normal. I hold up our matched books like shields between us. "You got 'Her Daddy's Rules' and I got..." I unwrap mine with trembling fingers. Oh god. Oh no. "Her Mountain Daddy.”
"Read it to me."
"Excuse me?"
"Book club. That's what we're doing, right? Read it out loud so we can discuss it."
My hands shake as I open to a random page, praying it's not a sex scene. Of course it's a sex scene. Of course it is. The universe hates me.
"'You're mine, little bunny,'" I read in my professional librarian voice, the one I use for children's story time.
"'Daddy's going to take such good care of you.
Daddy's going to make you feel so good.' His hands slid down her body, rough and possessive and—" I stop abruptly.
"I can't read this out loud! This is completely inappropriate! "
"Why not? You've clearly read worse. That whole shelf over there is daddy kink and power exchange."
"How do you possibly know that?"
"I can read, Charlie. Half the titles have 'Daddy' in them, and the other half have words like 'Master' and 'Sir' and 'Claimed.' Doesn't take a genius to figure out the theme."
He's moved closer now, crowding me against the shelf without actually touching me. Not threatening, just overwhelming. Present. Taking up all the air in the room and making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
"Is that what you like?" he asks quietly, his voice dropping an octave into something rough and intimate. "Someone to set rules? Take control? Make all the hard decisions so you don't have to?"
"It's just fiction, it doesn't mean anything."
"Charlie." That voice again, the one that makes my knees weak and my brain short-circuit. "Tell me the truth."
"I don't know!" It bursts out of me like a confession I've been holding in for years.
"I've never actually... my ex was controlling but not in a good way.
Not caring. He made me feel weak and stupid, not treasured or protected.
These books, they're about choosing to submit to someone you trust, not being forced or manipulated.
There's a difference. A huge difference. "
"There is." He steps back slightly, gives me space to breathe again. "Massive difference between abuse and dominance. One tears you down piece by piece until there's nothing left, the other builds you up and makes you stronger."
"Speaking from experience?"
"Had a buddy in the service who was into the BDSM scene. Explained a lot to me once when we were deployed and bored out of our minds. Never thought it was for me until..." He stops himself mid-sentence.
"Until what?"
"Until I met a librarian who apologizes for things that aren't her fault and needs someone to tell her she's doing a good job just existing."
My breath catches in my throat. "I don't—"
"You've apologized six times since I walked in. For the squeaky shelf, for your voice being too loud, for the way you organized the books, for reading too slowly, for interrupting me, for breathing too heavily. None of those things require an apology. None of those things are your fault."
Have I? I try to remember. Oh god, I have.
"I'm sorry—" I catch myself mid-word.
"That's seven." He shakes his head. "New rule for tonight. No apologizing unless you've actually done something wrong that requires an apology."
"You can't just make rules for me like that!"
"I just did. Try it for tonight. See how it feels."
I feel something click into place inside my chest, something settling and relaxing that's been tense for months. Years, maybe.
"Fine. Just for tonight. Book club rules only."
We settle into the comfortable chairs, reading our respective books in companionable silence.
Every time I start to apologize for things like the squeaky chair, for my stomach growling embarrassingly loud, for turning pages too noisily, he stops me with a single look, one raised eyebrow that says he heard me almost break the rule.
"Good girl," he says after I catch myself the fifth time, biting back the automatic apology.
The words shoot straight through me like electricity, making everything clench low in my belly. I squeeze my thighs together, hoping desperately he doesn't notice the effect his words have on me.
He notices. Those observant eyes don't miss anything.
"Like that, do you? Like being called a good girl?"
"It's getting late," I squeak, my voice way higher than normal. "I should probably start closing up procedures."
"It's 8:30. You don't close until nine."
"I should... organize things. Reshelf some returns. Update the catalog. Something productive."
"Charlie." He stands, walks over to my chair with slow, deliberate steps. "I'm going to give you homework."
"Homework? We're not in school."
"Write down what you want. What you need from a dominant partner. Be specific. Be honest. Bring it tomorrow night, same time."
"Tomorrow? You want to do this again tomorrow?"
"Same time, same place. And Charlie? Wear a skirt."
He leaves before I can respond, and I sit there for ten minutes, throbbing and confused and already mentally writing that list in my head, organizing it by category because that's what I do.