Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
The library clock struck nine, its gentle chime echoing through the empty stacks.
I flipped the last light switch in the children’s section and made my way back to the mythology display that had been the bane of my existence for the past week.
The stepladder from hell stood mockingly before me, its rickety frame practically sneering at my previous attempts to wrestle heavy books onto the top shelf.
My phone buzzed with a text.
I’m outside. Rear entrance?
I smiled at Rion’s characteristically terse message. In the two days since I’d visited his labyrinthine home, our texts had taken on a different quality—less formal and more frequent, though his economy of words remained intact.
Door’s unlocked. Coast is clear. Come on in! I replied, adding a book emoji and a bull emoji before I could overthink it.
A minute later, I heard the soft click of the back door opening.
Despite knowing who to expect, my breath still caught when Rion’s huge body appeared at the end of the aisle.
He wore a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to expose his forearms and black jeans that somehow managed to accommodate his powerful legs.
A wide-brimmed hat partially obscured his horns, though he removed it once inside.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. The last time we’d seen each other had been in his home, in that moment of… whatever it was between us. My cheeks warmed at the memory.
“Clara.” He nodded, his deep voice somehow making my name sound important.
“Thanks for coming,” I gestured towards the display. “As you can see, my ladder situation remains dire.”
He came closer, studying the tall bookcase with a critical eye. “This is the display?”
“Yes. ‘Mythological Creatures: Fact versus Fiction.’” I grimaced. “Ironic, given recent developments in my understanding of mythology.”
A fleeting smile crossed his serious face. “Indeed.”
“The issue is getting these reference books up to the top shelf,” I explained, pointing to a stack of oversized, leather-bound volumes on a nearby cart. “They’re the visual centerpieces, but they’re incredibly heavy, and this ladder…”
“Is inadequate,” he finished, giving the stepladder a dismissive glance. He approached the cart and lifted one of the books, weighing it in his hand as though it were no heavier than a paperback novel. “Where do you want them?”
“Arranged in a fan pattern on the top shelf, with the Greek mythology volume as the centerpiece.” I pointed up to the shelf that had been tormenting me all week.
Rion nodded and, without ceremony, picked up all five massive volumes at once.
The books that had made me sweat and struggle and nearly fall to my death were cradled in his arms like a stack of magazines.
He didn’t even need the ladder; reaching up, he easily placed the first volume in position on the far left of the shelf.
I stood transfixed, watching as he carefully arranged each book.
His rolled sleeves revealed powerful forearms covered in short, dark fur that caught the library’s soft lighting.
As he stretched to position the centerpiece volume, his shirt pulled taut across his broad back, revealing the play of muscles beneath.
Oh my. I swallowed hard, feeling a flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with bibliographic organization.
When all five volumes were perfectly positioned, he stepped back and turned to me. “Is this arrangement satisfactory?”
I blinked, forcing my thoughts back to the display. “It’s perfect. You just saved me hours of precarious ladder-climbing and potential injury.”
“The ladder is unsafe,” he stated flatly. “It should be replaced.”
“Tell that to the library budget committee,” I sighed. “We’re lucky to get new pencils, let alone proper equipment.”
He frowned, the furrow between his brows deepening. “I could design something more suitable.”
The offer warmed me. “That’s incredibly kind, but I couldn’t ask you to—”
“You didn’t ask. I offered.” His tone brooked no argument.
“Well… thank you,” I said, genuinely touched. “That would be amazing.”
With the heavy books in place, we turned our attention to the smaller volumes that would fill the lower shelves. I’d organized them by region and mythology type, with color-coded labels for easy browsing.
“You’ve created a classification system,” he observed, examining my handwritten labels.
“It’s a modified Dewey Decimal approach with a visual component,” I explained, pleased that he’d noticed. “The red labels are creatures associated with destruction or fear, yellow for tricksters and shape-shifters, blue for water-dwelling beings, and green for forest and earth creatures.”
“Thoughtful.” He picked up a book on centaurs from the cart. “Where would I be classified?”
The question caught me off guard. “I, um…” I hesitated, not wanting to offend him. “Technically, minotaurs are usually under Greek mythology, but…”
“But?”
“But classifications are just human attempts to impose order on things we don’t fully understand,” I finished. “Now that I’ve met you, I’d say you defy classification.”
Something softened in his dark eyes. “A diplomatic answer.”
“An honest one,” I countered. “The minotaur in mythology bears little resemblance to the architect who designs civic centers and bakes excellent cookies.”
A rumble that might have been a chuckle emanated from his chest. “Fair point.”
We worked side by side, arranging books on the lower shelves.
I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between us—his massive hands handling delicate volumes with surprising gentleness, my smaller ones darting around his to adjust and align.
There was something oddly domestic about the scene, like we’d done this a hundred times before.
“Have you always been a librarian?” he asked, breaking a comfortable silence.
“Since I finished my Master’s in Library Science,” I replied. “So, about four years now. I worked in a university library before coming here.”
“You enjoy it?”
“I love it,” I said, realizing how true that was. “There’s something magical about connecting people with exactly the right book at exactly the right time. Plus, I get to create order out of chaos, which is deeply satisfying to my Type A personality.”
He nodded, seeming to understand. “Creation through organization.”
“Exactly! Though I suspect your creations are a bit more impressive than my book displays,” I added with a smile.
“Different, not more impressive,” he corrected. “Both serve a purpose.”
We continued working, chatting about libraries and architecture, finding unexpected commonalities in our approaches to our respective crafts.
He spoke with growing animation about a public library he’d designed in Seattle, describing how he’d created spaces that encouraged both community gathering and private reflection.
“The challenge was balancing openness with intimacy,” he explained, his deep voice taking on that warm rumble that appeared when he discussed his work. “Humans need both.”
“That’s exactly what makes a good library,” I agreed enthusiastically. “It needs to be a social space and a sanctuary simultaneously.”
As we reached for the same book—a slim volume on phoenixes—our hands brushed.
In most romance novels, this would be the moment for an electric spark, a dramatic pause, meaningful eye contact.
Instead, what I felt was something subtler but no less powerful: a deep sense of warmth and connection that spread up my arm and settled somewhere in my chest.
I didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did he. For a brief moment, his large hand rested lightly against mine, the texture of his fur surprisingly soft against my skin.
When we finally separated, I felt a blush creeping up my neck but kept my focus on the books. “So, um, have you designed many libraries?”
“Three,” he replied, his voice slightly rougher than before. “The Seattle project was the most recent.”
“I’d love to see it someday,” I said, then realized how that might sound. “I mean, I love visiting libraries when I travel. Professional curiosity.”
He was quiet for a moment. “It was… challenging to attend the opening.”
Something in his tone made me look up. His expression had shifted, a shadow passing across his features.
“Because of…” I hesitated, not wanting to assume.
“Yes.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Public appearances require… arrangements.”
The understatement in those words hit me like a punch to the gut. Of course Rion couldn’t simply attend an opening ceremony for a building he’d designed. Of course he couldn’t receive public recognition for his work. The world I navigated freely was a minefield for him.
“That’s not fair,” I said, the words bursting out before I could temper them. “Your work is brilliant. You should be celebrated for it, not hidden away.”
His eyes met mine, surprise evident in their depths. “The world is not known for its fairness, particularly to those who are different.”
“Still,” I insisted, a protective fierceness rising in me. “You deserve recognition.”
“Recognition has not always been… beneficial for my kind.” His voice lowered, taking on a heaviness that suggested personal experience.
“Humans tend to fear what they don’t understand.
Fear becomes hostility. Hostility becomes…
” He trailed off, but the pain that flickered across his face told me enough.
In that moment, I understood that Rion’s imposing physical presence and his reserved demeanor weren’t just personality traits—they were armor, developed over what must have been years of misunderstanding and prejudice. The realization made my heart ache.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “For whatever happened. For all of it.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You have nothing to apologize for, Clara.”
“Maybe not personally, but as a card-carrying member of the human race, I feel like someone should apologize for our collective idiocy.”