Chapter 4
four
. . .
Tatianna
The staff break room feels like a sanctuary after the vast, echoing galleries.
Jerald moves with surprising efficiency, finding emergency lanterns in a cabinet and bathing the small room in warm yellow light that chases away the ominous red glow.
I perch on the edge of the worn couch, watching his massive hands work with unexpected gentleness as he arranges supplies on the coffee table—bottled water, a first aid kit, some granola bars from the vending machine he'd somehow opened without electricity.
His knuckles are scarred, I notice again.
Not from accidents. From hitting things.
People, maybe. The thought should terrify me, but instead, it sends another inappropriate shiver down my spine. What is wrong with me tonight?
“Still cold?" he asks, not looking up from his task.
"No, I'm fine," I lie, rubbing my arms to hide the goosebumps that have nothing to do with temperature.
He grunts, unconvinced, and pulls a scratchy wool blanket from an emergency kit. Before I can protest, he's draping it around my shoulders, his fingers briefly brushing against my collarbone. The contact sends electricity skittering across my skin.
"Thank you," I whisper, clutching the edges of the blanket like a shield.
He drops into the armchair across from me, the furniture looking comically small beneath his massive frame. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant rumble of thunder and the howling wind outside.
"So..." I begin awkwardly, desperate to fill the void. "Have you…worked here long?"
"Three years." His eyes never leave my face, studying me with that same intense focus I've felt for months. "You've been here eight months, two weeks, three days."
My breath catches. "You've been counting?"
A small shrug of those enormous shoulders. "I notice things."
"Like me," I say softly, not quite a question.
"Especially you."
The directness of his response steals my breath. No man has ever looked at me like this before—like I'm something precious and rare. Something to be studied, cataloged, possessed. Like an artifact, but infinitely more valuable.
"Why?" I ask before I can stop myself. "I'm not…I mean, I'm just me. Boring, quiet Tatianna who prefers thousand-year-old pottery to people at parties."
His eyes narrow slightly. "Who told you that was boring?"
I laugh, a small, self-deprecating sound. "Everyone? My whole life has been 'Tatianna, why don't you speak up more' and 'Tatianna, you'd be prettier if you smiled' and 'Tatianna, no one wants to hear about Etruscan burial practices at dinner.'"
"I do," he says simply.
Those two words pierce something deep inside me. I stare at him, searching his face for mockery, for the inevitable sign that he's just humoring the weird, bookish girl. But there's nothing but genuine interest in his dark eyes.
"It's just…it's been lonely," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can censor them.
"I love my work, I do. These artifacts, they speak to me in ways people never have.
They have stories, histories, significance.
But sometimes I wonder if anyone would notice if I just…
disappeared. If I'd leave any mark on the world at all. "
"I'd notice," Jerald says, voice low and certain. "I notice everything about you, Tatianna."
The way he says my name—like he's tasting it—makes my insides flutter. No one has ever made me feel so…seen.
"You're so focused when you work," he continues, leaning forward slightly. "The way you handle those artifacts, like they're alive. Like they matter. Your hands—" he gestures to my fingers clutching the blanket "—they're so careful. So respectful of history."
I blink rapidly, surprised by the burn of tears behind my eyes. "Most people think I'm wasting my life on dusty old relics."
"Most people are fucking idiots," he growls, then immediately looks surprised at his own vehemence. "Sorry."
A small laugh escapes me. "Don't be. You're right."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips, transforming his harsh features into something almost boyish for a split second before the intensity returns.
"You're smart," he says. "Smart as hell. I've listened to you explain things to those school tours. The kids actually pay attention to you. You make history breathe."
The compliment warms me from the inside out. "Thank you," I whisper. "That's…that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a long time."
"Such a good girl," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower. "Working so hard, knowing so much."
Something hot and liquid pools in my belly at his words. Good girl. It should sound condescending, but the way he says it—like praise, like a reward—makes me want to earn more of those words.
"I try," I say softly.
“Any daddy would be proud of you."
The word hits me like an electric shock.
Daddy. It should be ridiculous, offensive even.
I'm a grown woman with advanced degrees, not some child seeking paternal approval.
But the way he says it, deep and possessive, awakens something primal in me.
Something that recognizes the claim in his tone and responds to it on a level beyond rational thought.
I should be outraged. Should stand up and distance myself. Should set firm boundaries.
Instead, I feel myself melting, heat blossoming between my legs as my body responds to his words in ways my mind can't comprehend.
"Are you still cold?" he asks, noticing my shiver.
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
"Liar." He pats his massive thigh. "Come here. Body heat's the best way to warm up."
Every rational part of me screams to decline. To maintain professional distance. To remember that we're colleagues stuck in an emergency situation, nothing more.
But my body is already moving, rising from the couch on unsteady legs and crossing the small space between us.
"That's it," he encourages softly.
His voice makes my core clench with need. I perch tentatively on his knee, keeping my body rigid, trying to maintain some semblance of propriety.
His arms wrap around me, engulfing me completely, pulling me against his broad chest. "Relax," he murmurs into my hair. "I've got you."
And God help me, I do. I relax into his embrace, my body molding against his as if it was made to fit there. His heat surrounds me, his scent—something masculine and clean with hints of leather and spice—filling my lungs.
“Good girl," he rumbles, one large hand stroking my back in soothing circles.
I should pull away. Should establish boundaries. Should remind him—and myself—that we're just waiting out a storm, nothing more.
Instead, I lift my face to look at him, to study the hard angles of his jaw, the intensity in his dark eyes, the surprising softness of his mouth despite the stern lines bracketing it.
That mouth. I can't stop staring at it, wondering how it would feel against mine.
As if reading my thoughts, he brings one hand up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip with exquisite gentleness. "Been wanting to do this for eight months, two weeks, and three days," he whispers.
Then his mouth is on mine, and nothing in my life has prepared me for this. Not the romance novels hidden beneath my academic texts. Not the few awkward dates in graduate school that ended with chaste, forgettable kisses.
This—this is consuming. His lips claim mine with absolute possession, his beard scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin.
What starts as almost gentle quickly transforms as something inside me breaks open.
I whimper into his mouth, my hands clutching at his shoulders, my body twisting to press closer.
He groans in response, his arms tightening around me as his tongue demands entrance. I yield instantly, opening to him, letting him take control of the kiss, of me. His taste—coffee and something uniquely him—floods my senses as his tongue explores my mouth with thorough precision.
I'm making sounds I've never made before, desperate little moans that would mortify me if I could think clearly.
But thinking is impossible when his massive hand cradles the back of my head, when his other arm locks around my waist, when his kiss deepens with a hunger that matches the sudden, shocking need building inside me.
This isn't me. I don't do this—don't kiss virtual strangers, don't melt at possessive words, don't crave the touch of a man who calls me "little girl" and "good girl" and makes me want to be exactly that for him.
But as his kiss turns demanding, as his teeth nip at my lower lip and draw a gasp from deep in my chest, I realize this is exactly who I am tonight.
And I want more.