Chapter 10 #2
A startled sound escaped him—something between a snort and a chuckle. “Your species is young. Perhaps you’ll improve with time.”
“I hope so,” I said, suddenly wanting desperately to prove to him that not all humans were driven by fear and prejudice. That some of us, at least one of us, could see him for who he truly was. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad I texted the wrong number that day.”
His expression softened, the guardedness receding slightly. “As am I.”
We returned to shelving books, but something had shifted between us. The air felt charged with unspoken understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the unusual path that had brought us together and the unique connection that was forming despite—or perhaps because of—our differences.
As we placed the last few volumes, I found myself stealing glances at his profile—the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his horns, the thoughtful set of his mouth.
In the warm light of the library, surrounded by books and quiet, he looked like he belonged there.
Not as an anomaly or a monster from mythology, but simply as himself.
When we finished, we stepped back to admire our work. The display looked better than I’d envisioned, with the heavy reference volumes fanned impressively across the top shelf and the smaller books organized neatly below.
“It’s perfect,” I said, genuinely pleased. “Mrs. Wilson is going to be thrilled, and the patrons will love it.”
“It’s well-designed,” he agreed, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Though perhaps biased towards the ‘fact’ side of ‘Fact or Fiction’ now.”
I laughed. “Our little secret.”
I reached up to adjust one slightly crooked spine, but even on tiptoes, I couldn’t quite reach it. Without a word, he stepped behind me, his presence warm and solid at my back, and easily fixed the alignment.
“Thank you,” I murmured, suddenly acutely aware of his proximity.
I turned around, finding myself in the small space between his body and the bookshelf.
Looking up at him from this close was dizzying—he seemed to fill my entire field of vision, powerful and imposing yet somehow not intimidating at all.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his voice lower than before.
For a breathless moment, neither of us moved. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and smell that now-familiar warm, earthy scent. His dark eyes held mine, and I had the distinct impression he was waiting for something….
My pulse started racing, but then the harsh buzz of the library’s ancient heating system kicking on broke the spell and he started to step back.
Before I could overthink it—before I could talk myself out of it—I went up on tiptoes and I kissed him. It was impulsive, completely unplanned, and the second my lips touched his, my brain stopped functioning.
Because he didn’t freeze. He didn’t pull away. His hand came up, large and careful, and settled on my waist, holding me against him as he deepened the kiss.
His lips were not exactly human lips, his tongue wide and slightly rough, claiming my mouth with devastating thoroughness, but he was gentle, so gentle that I felt my knees go weak.
When we finally broke apart, both of us slightly breathless, he leaned his forehead against mine, careful of his horns.
His eyes, dark and deep, held an expression that stole the air from my lungs.
“Clara,” he rumbled, my name a low vibration that I felt in my bones. “That was…”
“Inevitable?” I supplied, a little breathlessly.
“Incredible,” he said, and then, with aching slowness, he kissed me again. I sank into it, letting the taste and the feel of him wash away everything but that moment.
“I should go,” he said reluctantly, when we broke apart the second time, his hand still firm around my waist. “It’s getting late.”
“Right,” I agreed, feeling both relieved and disappointed. “Of course. Thank you again for your help.”
“It was no trouble.” He reached for his hat, settling it carefully to partially obscure his horns. “Good night, Clara.”
“Good night, Rion.”
As he turned to leave, I was struck by a sudden, irrational fear that once he walked out the door, whatever had been building between us might dissipate—that without the immediate task of the library display, we might slip back into being just occasional texting acquaintances.
“Rion,” I called, surprising myself.
He paused, looking back at me.
“Would you…” I hesitated, then forged ahead. “Would you like to have coffee sometime? Or tea? Or whatever you prefer?”
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us had voiced. For a moment, his expression was completely unreadable. Then, slowly, his features softened into what was definitely a smile—small but genuine.
“I would like that,” he said simply.
Relief and excitement flooded through me. “Great! I’ll text you, and we can figure out when and where.”
He nodded, still wearing that slight smile. “Good night, Clara,” he repeated, his tone warmer this time.
After he left, I stood in the quiet library, surrounded by books about mythological creatures, feeling like I’d just stepped into a story myself—one with an uncertain plot but undeniable potential.
I ran my fingers along the spine of the Greek mythology volume, thinking about strength and vulnerability, about minotaurs and librarians, about unlikely connections formed through wrong numbers and ladder emergencies.
And as I gathered my things to leave, I found myself looking forward to exploring that connection, one careful, thoughtful step at a time.