Chapter Four
Chapter
Four
ELIAS BENNETT
Iwatch Malachi move through the ballroom with his usual calculated grace. He doesn't wander. He doesn't browse. No, Malachi Black always moves with intent.
But tonight, there's a difference.
I see it in the way his gaze lingers, in the brief flicker of something almost contemplative as he pauses before a single woman—a woman I've never seen here before.
That alone is enough to pique my interest.
The others, the men draped in wealth and arrogance, refer to these gatherings with casual cruelty—auctions, merchandise, acquisitions.
I never cared for the terminology. I understand power, I understand ancient rites, but I never understood the need to dress them up in indulgence. A thin veil over something far more barbaric.
And yet, here I stand. Participating.
I tell myself it's different. That I only come to observe, to glean knowledge, to understand what the others refuse to question. I am not a collector of women, nor do I see the appeal in taking power through ritual.
But still—I am here.
And now, so is she.
She isn't like the others. That much is immediately clear. She doesn't move with the same trained ease, doesn't bat her lashes at masked figures in search of a suitor. She watches. Quiet, but keen, her gaze assessing rather than admiring.
Even now, as Malachi stands in front of her, I can tell she is thinking. Calculating. Trying to decipher the shape of the world she's been pulled into.
I watch as Malachi speaks to her, offering his gloved hand. His posture is precise, his voice low enough that I can't quite catch the words, but I know how he speaks to people. Soft enough to pull them in, firm enough to remind them he holds control.
Then Gideon steps forward, as steady and immovable as ever. She doesn't flinch under his scrutiny.
Interesting.
I roll my glass between my fingers, letting the golden liquid catch the candlelight. There is something here—something I want to understand.
When Malachi and Gideon turn to leave, I see the moment he looks back at her.
A flicker of something. Not hesitation, but something close.
That alone is enough to make me move.
I slip through the crowd, steps unhurried but purposeful. Malachi rarely lingers on anyone. If he did tonight, then she is worth a closer look.
And I do love a mystery.
As I step into her line of sight, she turns, sensing my presence before I speak.
Clever girl.
I allow a small, thoughtful smile to touch my lips as I incline my head.
"Elias Bennett," I say, introducing myself.
Her gaze flicks to me, blue-grey eyes sharp beneath the delicate edges of her mask. There's a moment—just the briefest hesitation—before she nods.
"Sage Holloway," she says, her voice steady, measured. I don't extend my hand the way Malachi had. I don't test boundaries. Not yet.
I watch as she assesses me—not just my presence, but my intent. A mind that doesn't just see, but seeks to understand.
"You seem familiar," she muses, as if trying to place me.
I arch a brow. "I should hope so. Columbia University. Medieval Studies."
Something in her expression shifts, a flicker of interest that tells me I've struck upon something worth pursuing.
"A professor?" she asks, lips curving slightly.
"Indeed. Though I have a habit of collecting books more than students these days," I reply. "And you? You don't strike me as someone easily impressed by grand halls and fine clothes."
That earns a quiet huff—not quite laughter, but close.
"You're right about that," she admits. "I prefer places where words are louder than people."
My smile deepens. "A fellow academic, then."
She lifts a shoulder in an understated shrug. "Librarian. New York Public Library. I'm nothing special."
"I wouldn't say that. A librarian is a noble profession. I imagine you spend more time lost in the stacks than speaking to people."
Her lips press together as if suppressing a real smile. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Not at all," I assure her. "The right book is better company than most."
She exhales lightly, as if she hadn't expected the agreement. "Finally, someone who understands."
I take a sip from my glass, watching her over the rim. "Then tell me, Sage Holloway—what's your genre of choice?"
She doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she takes a moment, as if weighing her options.
"That depends," she says finally, tilting her head. "Are you asking what I read for comfort, for knowledge, or for escape?"
I blink. That was not the answer I was expecting.
Interesting.
"Let's start with comfort," I say, intrigued by the distinction.
"Old fairy tales," she replies without hesitation. "The originals—the ones before they were softened into bedtime stories."
"Ah, the dark ones," I muse, setting my glass aside. "Bloodied slippers, witches burned alive, monsters hiding behind beautiful faces."
Her gaze flickers with something unreadable. "Monsters aren't always the ones hiding."
I allow that to linger between us, the weight of it settling. She is perceptive. She sees more than she lets on.
"And for knowledge?" I ask, steering the conversation onward.
"History," she says. "Ancient civilizations, lost texts, forbidden knowledge. The things most people forget or never learned to begin with."
Now that makes me smile. "A woman after my own heart."
She gives me a knowing look. "I imagine your books are much older than mine."
"I have a library of texts that aren't meant to exist anymore," I admit, not without pride. "Though I suspect you'd appreciate them more than most. People tend to undervalue history."
Her eyes brighten just a little, though she tries to mask it. "Most people don't understand that history isn't just facts. It's stories—people, decisions, consequences. It's all connected."
I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if sharing a secret. "You would love my collection, then. Manuscripts written before language was tamed. Books that whisper when the room is quiet enough."
She tilts her head. "That sounds dangerous."
"Everything worth reading is," I reply, and this time, she really does smile.
It's small, but it's there.
And I find that I want to see it again.