8. CHAPTER 8
MOON
My pen froze. The east gallery was quiet except for the soft tick of the old clock above the stacks. Tall windows let in the last of the gray afternoon light.
Maggie, the little black Academy cat, landed on my notes like she’d never been told no in her life. Her paw landed straight in the inkwell. Black ink exploded across forty minutes of Black Chalice projections in one glossy, spreading disaster.
Of course she stepped in it.
One perfect black paw print stamped itself right over Vesper’s top line.
I stared. She stared back, tail flicking once. Zero remorse.
“You work for Vesper, don’t you?” I muttered.
Her tail flicked again, smug. My jaw locked. Control. One fucking thing. One small thing.
I reached to move her. She dug her claws in and shredded the edge.
Heat crawled up my throat. Not the cat. The projections were already ruined before her paw hit the page.
My focus had fractured the second I heard him say jal-haess-eo-yo again in my head, the syllables still roughened by Ireland and far too carefully practiced for a man who claimed nothing mattered.
Every time the pen touched paper since, I heard it.
Footsteps hit the stone behind me.
I knew that rhythm before I even turned.
Cillian.
My hand jerked away from Maggie. The sleeve caught. The inkwell tipped. One fragile second of glass wobbling on wood. Then ink spilled everywhere, across the projections, over my notes, down my white shirt. Perfectly visible.
“Fuck.” Out loud. In the east gallery. Like an idiot.
What is he even doing here?
How did he know I studied in this gallery? I hadn’t told Vivienne. I hadn’t told Sawyer. I came here for one hour of privacy where no one could watch me unravel.
And yet here he was.
Maybe he wanted sex. Maybe he was fucking with me. The terrifying part was how badly my body already believed he did. Fuck.
Silence slammed down around me.
Then Cillian Ashbourne laughed behind my back. I wanted to drive the inkwell straight into his mouth. I looked down at the mess, then at Maggie, then, unfortunately, at him.
He stood just inside the lamplight, shower-fresh, black shirt tucked in, collar open, sleeves rolled up over forearms still red from the ring. Damp curls at the nape of his neck. Knuckles freshly split. And that fucking half-smile.
We were alone.
Completely fucking alone.
His gaze dropped to the ink soaking my shirt, then to my fingers. Lower. Straight to the penguin keychain Maggie had dragged into view.
Interest flared in his eyes, dark and far too amused. He stepped closer and reached first. My hand snapped out. His fingers closed around the little charm faster than I could intervene. The sight of it sitting in his scarred hand twisted low in my gut.
“Give it back.”
His brows lifted in invitation. “Come take it, prince.”
“Don’t start.”
“I already did.” He turned the keychain over in his fingers, thumb brushing the worn red hat. “Didn’t peg you for the cute shit, Moon. How adorably domestic.”
I folded my arms to keep from using my hands. “Cillian.”
He lifted his eyes to mine, and the dimple appeared. “What? I’m just admiring your taste.”
I stepped into him. “Give it back. Now.”
“Make me.”
I grabbed his wrist.
He twisted hard, turning with my grip and dragging me with him. I followed, refusing to let go. Our arms locked, muscles straining. His chest collided with mine. I shoved forward.
He gave ground. The grin should have warned me. I pushed again, and he turned my momentum against me.
My hip struck the chair. Pain shot up my side. His hand closed around my waist, and he shoved me off balance. My back hit the rug with a heavy thud.
Cillian came down with me. I tried to roll, but his knee drove between my thighs and pinned me. His grip stayed locked around my wrist, the penguin keychain trapped between us. He hovered above me, breathing steady while mine came sharp and angry.
“You do love proving me right,” he said.
Fuck.
I grabbed his shirt and yanked. The intention had been simple. Create distance. Instead I dragged him straight into my space. Our noses brushed. Our mouths hovered a breath apart. He smelled of cedar, clean skin, and worn leather. It filled my lungs. My breath hitched.
No. No. No.
Cillian’s eyes darkened. “Tell me I’m a better kisser than Zara King.”
Saint Lucia all over again. The same heavy pull. The same sick, terrifying want I couldn’t kill.
I shoved at his shoulder. Weaker than I meant. He pressed me harder into the rug. Every point of contact burned.
“Cillian,” I breathed.
If I kissed him, there would be no version of this where I got to keep lying to myself. He would stop being the boy who chased me. He would become the boy I’d reached for. My entire body leaned toward him, anyway.
His hand came up. Two fingers brushed my temple, pushing hair back with that fucking gentleness I hated. My lungs forgot how to breathe. He leaned in. He was actually going to kiss me. And I wasn’t stopping him.
Soft at first. Testing. Just a brush of lips that made my stomach drop. He pulled back a fraction, eyes searching mine.
My hands stayed fisted in his shirt. I didn’t let go. Instead I pulled him down harder.
The kiss turned desperate. Messy. His mouth opened against mine and I met him there, tongues sliding, teeth grazing.
My fingers twisted tighter in the fabric, yanking him closer while my other hand slid up his back, grabbing at warm skin and muscle.
He groaned into my mouth and rolled his hips, grinding against me.
I grabbed his ass, pulling him harder between my legs.
Then a door opened somewhere beyond the stacks. The soft metallic click sliced through everything. A humiliating yelp tore from my throat. I choked it back too late.
Cillian didn’t stop. His mouth dragged from mine to my jaw, then down to my neck, hot and open, sucking hard enough to sting as the footsteps approached.
I shoved at his chest. “Get off,” I mouthed desperately.
He didn’t. Instead he settled heavier between my thighs, pinning me down. One big hand slid between us and palmed my cock through my trousers, stroking once, firm and eager.
My breath shattered. “Cillian—”
One more sound and Professor Korolev would catch us acting like complete idiots.
“Shh.” His lips brushed my ear. “Quiet, prince. You’re going to get us caught.”
He stroked me again, thumb pressing against the head, while his mouth returned to my neck, sucking and biting like he couldn’t help himself. The footsteps grew louder. Closer. Leather soles on stone.
Cillian dragged us farther under the reading table before Korolev reached the aisle. From beneath it I peered through the narrow gaps in the books. A tall figure stopped a few rows away. The jagged scar across his face was unmistakable. Professor Korolev.
Something cold sank low in my belly.
Cillian’s hand kept moving, rubbing me harder through the fabric while his teeth grazed my throat. My cock throbbed against his palm. I was terrified. Furious. And so fucking hard it hurt.
Korolev lingered. A book scraped off a shelf. Pages turned.
I stopped breathing entirely. My hand clamped around Cillian’s wrist, trying to yank him away, but he just pressed harder, thumb circling the head again like he was daring me to make a sound.
Three seconds passed. Then Korolev turned. The door clicked open. Footsteps retreated.
The second they faded I shoved Cillian with everything I had, anger exploding through me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I hissed, shoving him again as I scrambled to my feet on shaking legs.
“We could have been caught. He was right there, and you still had your hand on my cock like some reckless idiot—”
“Could have.”
“That’s your response?”
“You said it well enough for both of us.”
My shirt was twisted. Hair in my face. Pulse jackhammering. I yanked the hem straight with shaking fingers, painfully aware of how obvious I still was half-hard, flushed, breathing like I’d run a mile. The evidence of how little control I had left sat right there between my legs for him to see.
I wasn’t even out. And I had just kissed Cillian Ashbourne back. On the fucking gallery floor. One more minute and Professor Korolev would have found us like this. Shame crashed so violently my stomach tried to crawl up my throat.
“You’re insane,” I said. The words came out weaker than I wanted. Not nearly furious enough. Fuck.
Cillian’s smirk faded as he watched me. His eyes lingered on my shaking hands, then on the way I couldn’t quite look at him. Something in his face shifted, quieter, almost careful.
“No. It’s not funny.”
He stayed on the floor a moment longer, studying me like he was trying to find the version of me from Saint Lucia. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me, but he didn’t.
“Moon.”
“No.” I stepped back.
“You didn’t hear what I was going to say.”
“I don’t need to.”
He rose slowly and closed the distance. I stepped back again. He followed. His fingers brushed my collar, straightening it, then reached up to tuck a strand of hair off my forehead with that infuriating gentleness.
I slapped his hand away, anger flaring.
“Stop following me,” I hissed, voice cracking. “Just stop. We could have been caught by Professor Korolev. Do you understand what that would mean for me?”
Cillian didn’t retreat. He stepped closer instead, one large hand sliding behind my neck, fingers firm as he pulled me in. He pressed our foreheads together, holding me there, breathing the same air.
“I’m not going anywhere, Moonshine,” he said quietly. “Not from you.”
My heart gave one painful kick. I grabbed his wrist with both hands and yanked hard, trying to break free.
He held on. I twisted violently, shoving at his chest with my shoulder, feet scraping uselessly against the rug.
My elbow caught his side. I wrenched my head back, but his hand stayed locked behind my neck.
With one final, desperate surge I tore away, stumbling backward several steps, chest heaving.
Cillian watched me, eyes dark and determined.
“I know what this could cost you,” he said. “Doesn’t change a fucking thing.”
I found the nearest exit with my eyes before he could see how close I was to cracking again.
I fixed my collar, smoothed the front of my shirt, and waited until my breathing sounded normal.
My bag was still on the table. I grabbed it quickly, shoving the ruined projections inside without looking.
My eyes caught on the penguin keychain still in Cillian’s hand.
I glanced at it once, then looked away. I didn’t bother asking for it back.
Then I left the gallery without another word.
Every step away from him felt heavier than the last.
Pulse still too high. Hands still shaking once I was clear of the stacks.
I kissed him back. Again. On the gallery floor. With Professor Korolev ten feet away.
Anyone could have rounded the corner. Anyone could have seen the way I pulled him down instead of pushing him off.
My hands still smelled like him. My mouth still tasted like him. I should have scrubbed both clean the second I was alone.
I didn’t.