Chapter 3
three
. . .
Tatianna
I've never heard Jerald's voice before tonight.
Eight months of silence, and now his words reverberate through me like thunder—deep, dangerous, and oddly thrilling.
Little girl. The way he said it, rough and possessive, should make me indignant.
I have a PhD candidacy and a professional position at this museum.
I'm not anyone's "little girl." But the words settle into my bones like they belong there, and the heat spreading across my cheeks has nothing to do with anger.
What's wrong with me? I quicken my pace down the dark corridor, keenly aware of his massive presence behind me, following like a shadow given weight and mass and… hunger.
"Maybe there's a window we could—" I start, but my voice cracks embarrassingly. I clear my throat and try again. "A window we could signal through? If anyone passes by?"
"Three-inch bulletproof glass and steel security bars," Jerald rumbles behind me. "Museum houses over four hundred million dollars in artifacts. You're not getting out through a window."
The way he says it—you're not getting out—sends a shiver down my spine that's equal parts fear and something else I don't want to examine too closely.
"Right. Of course." I wrap my arms around myself as we pass through the Egyptian wing, sarcophagi looming in the dim red glow. "I didn't think."
"You cold?"
The question surprises me. I glance back at him, barely able to make out his features in the crimson-tinged darkness. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes…God, his eyes are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
"A little," I admit, though it's not entirely the temperature making me shiver.
He doesn't offer me his jacket or any other gallant gesture. Just nods once, eyes never leaving my face. "Break room has blankets in the emergency kit."
We check the administrative offices first, but the phones are dead. No dial tone, no cell service in this fortress of stone and steel. Each door we try is another disappointment, each darkened corridor another reminder that we're completely cut off.
The silence becomes unbearable as we move through the Renaissance gallery. I've never been good at small talk, but the weight of his stare on my back makes me desperate to fill the void.
"The security system is modeled after the Louvre's post-1911 upgrades," I blurt, my academic brain defaulting to facts when social skills fail me. "After the Mona Lisa was stolen, they completely overhauled their—"
"I know," he interrupts, his voice like gravel. "I helped design this one."
I stop mid-step and turn to face him. "You did?"
In the dim red light, I catch the slight upward curve of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but close. "Military before this. Security systems specialist."
"Oh." I blink rapidly, recalibrating everything I thought I knew about the silent giant who's been haunting my peripheral vision for months. "I didn't…I mean, that's impressive."
"Not as impressive as your work," he counters, stepping closer. "I've watched you catalog those Herculaneum pieces. You know things about those artifacts no one else here does."
My cheeks burn hotter. He's been watching me work? Actually paying attention to what I'm doing, not just…watching me? The thought is oddly flattering.
"It's my job," I mumble, ducking my head. "I just love history. Objects tell stories that people sometimes miss."
"You're so damn smart, little girl." His voice drops another octave, the gruff compliment washing over me like a physical touch. "Makes me want to keep you locked up with me forever."
My head snaps up, eyes wide. Did he just...? The way he's looking at me—like I'm an exhibit he wants to steal and keep for himself—makes my breath catch. There's nothing professional in that gaze. Nothing safe.
"We should check the north wing," I stammer, turning away quickly before he can see the effect his words have on me. "There might be a service entrance that—"
"Won't be open," he cuts me off, but follows as I hurry ahead. "But we can check."
The north wing houses the temporary exhibits—currently a display on Mesopotamian fertility rituals that I helped research last spring. The dim emergency lighting casts eerie shadows across the ancient stone carvings of couples intertwined in explicit positions.
"These are…um…third millennium BCE," I explain needlessly, my academic voice taking over as we pass a particularly graphic statue. "They believed fertility rituals ensured not just children but good harvests and—"
"Protection," Jerald finishes, suddenly directly behind me. I didn't hear him move closer. "The male figure is both fertilizing and protecting."
His body radiates heat against my back, though he's not quite touching me. I can feel his breath stir my hair, can sense the massive breadth of his chest just inches away. How can someone so large move so silently?
"Yes," I whisper, frozen in place like a rabbit before a wolf. "Protection."
His hand moves into my field of vision, pointing to a small detail on the statue I'd been avoiding looking at directly—the male figure's oversized phallus entering the female. "They exaggerated size to represent power. Dominance."
The academic observation is at odds with the rough desire in his voice. My mouth goes dry as I realize how close he's standing, how alone we are, how the statues around us mirror the thoughts suddenly flooding my mind.
"I—I should check the service door," I stammer, stepping away quickly.
The door, predictably, is locked tight. I press my forehead against the cool metal, trying to regulate my breathing, to understand why my body is reacting this way.
I've never been attracted to men like Jerald—men who could snap me in half, men who loom and intimidate, men who call me "little girl" in voices that promise things I've only read about in books.
"Told you," he says from directly behind me again. When I turn, he's so close I have to crane my neck to see his face. "Nothing's opening until morning."
Lightning flashes through the skylights overhead, briefly illuminating his features in harsh white light. The scar along his jaw. The intensity in his dark eyes. The barely restrained hunger in his expression as he looks down at me.
My heart hammers so hard I'm sure he can hear it. My body feels strange—heavy between my legs, skin hypersensitive, breasts tingling beneath my blouse. I've never felt this way before, this acute awareness of another person, this…need.
"We should find somewhere to wait it out," I suggest, my voice barely audible over the thunder that follows. "The staff room, like you said."
He nods once, stepping back to let me pass. As I move by him in the narrow corridor, my arm brushes against his—the briefest contact of skin against skin—and electricity shoots through me that has nothing to do with the storm outside.
What is happening to me? I've spent my life comfortable with ancient objects, not people. Especially not massive, intimidating men who look at me like they want to devour me whole. Men who call me "little girl" in voices that make my insides liquify.
Men whose hungry gazes I should be running from, not secretly craving more of.
But as we walk in silence toward the staff room, all I can think about is how his massive hand would feel engulfing mine, how his arms could wrap around me completely, how safe I might feel pressed against that broad chest.
And how terrifying it is that I want to find out.