CHAPTER 15 The Fire in the Archive
POV: Maya
The smell hit me before the alarm even had the decency to blare.
It wasn’t the cozy, familiar scent of aged paper and leather bindings that had become my sanctuary over the last six months.
It was sharp. Acrid. The unmistakable, stomach-turning reek of burning insulation.
I snapped my head up from the restoration table, my heart doing an instant, violent freefall into my stomach.
No. No, no, no.
A low hum hissed from the east corner of the archive floor, followed by a harsh, blinding pop. Sparks showered over the exposed wiring of the vintage lamp system, and within three seconds, a crawl of orange flames was licking up the dry pine shelving near the back collection.
Panic hit like a cold bucket of water. I didn’t care about my coat.
I didn’t care about my purse or my phone resting on the front desk.
My eyes flew straight to the climate-controlled display case in the center of the room—the 18th-century municipal registries.
Four months of my life. Endless nights of meticulous, painstaking restoration.
The physical proof that I was rebuilding something real, something that belonged entirely to me.
The fire alarm finally caught up, shrieking a high-pitched, deafening wail that pierced straight through my skull. Smoke was blooming fast, rolling thick and gray across the high ceilings.
I lunged for the fire extinguisher near the doorway, pulled the pin with a brutal yank, and leveled it at the rising wall of heat.
The white chemical spray choked out the lower embers, but the flames were already climbing, catching the dry, centuries-old wood of the upper shelving. It was growing too fast.
"Maya! Maya!"
The voice shattered through the alarms and the crackle of burning pine. A second later, the heavy double doors of the archive burst open, slamming against the plaster walls.
Julian.
He didn’t have a jacket on. His expensive tailored shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his tie gone, his dark hair a windswept mess.
He looked completely unraveled—a sight I would have thought impossible six months ago.
The man who usually looked like he’d been hand-sculpted for a Forbes cover was sprinting through a cloud of black smoke like a madman.
His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild with a sheer, unadulterated terror I had never seen on his face. "Get out!" he roared, coughing as the smoke hit his lungs, charging straight toward me. "Maya, move!"
"The registry!" I screamed back, pointing furiously at the glass display case as the heat blasted against my skin.
"Julian, the 1780 ledgers are in there! If the glass shatters, they’re gone!
" He didn't hesitate. He didn't question me, didn't lecture me about safety, and didn't care about the smoke dropping low and thick over our heads.
While I emptied the rest of the chemical foam onto the nearest shelf to buy us seconds, Julian slammed his shoulder straight into the heavy wooden frame of the display case.
It didn't budge. He growled, a raw, primal sound, and drove his weight into it again, forcing the lock to give way with a sharp snap.
"Grab the casing!" he commanded, his voice raspy from the fumes.
"Julian, your hands—"
"I don't give a damn about my hands, Maya! Take the box!"
He reached directly into the heat, grabbing the heavy, velvet-lined display tray containing the fragile manuscripts.
The metal edges were scorching, but he didn't even flinch.
His jaw was set, his muscles straining as he hoisted the entire fifty-pound casing into his arms, effectively shielding the delicate artifacts with his own body.
Sparks rained down around us as a overhead light fixture shorted out, shattering glass onto the floor.
Julian spun, wrapping one massive, protective arm around my waist, tucking me tightly against his chest while holding the priceless archive materials with the other.
He pulled me toward the exit, taking the brunt of the heat against his back as a burning piece of molding collapsed behind us with a shower of embers.
We burst through the double doors into the cool, damp night air, stumbling onto the brick courtyard just as the distant sirens began to wail through the town.
Julian dropped to his knees on the pavement, carefully setting the preserved registry down on the dry grass before turning to me.
Hands—covered in soot, trembling violently—cupped my face.
"Are you hurt?" he demanded, his voice cracking. His dark eyes swept over every inch of me, searching for burns, for blood, for anything. "Talk to me, Maya. Are you okay?" "I'm fine," I breathed, my lungs burning, my chest heaving as I looked at him. "Julian, your back—your hands—"
"I don't care," he choked out, slamming his forehead against mine, his hot breath shuddering out of him. "I don't care about anything else. You're breathing. You're safe."
For four years, I had starved for a single drop of his focus.
And now, lying on the cold pavement under the flashing red lights of approaching fire engines, Julian Thorne was trembling against me, smelling of smoke and ash, looking at me like I was the only thing in the entire burning world that mattered.
And the scariest part? I was actually starting to believe him.