Chapter 3
Alanna
Large hands clamp onto my shoulders, pinning me in place as I thrash in panic. Then a sharp inhale, directly above my head, and the iron grip briefly tightens, pressing into my flesh just shy of painfully. The hands radiate heat, chasing away the deep bone-chill that had seeped into me.
My face is inches away from a broad chest. Fear locks my lungs, as a deep, gravelly voice rumbles so close it vibrates through me and down the arm where the crystal now pulses.
“Easy, Librarian,” the voice commands, rough and firm.
“Let go of me!” I yell, trying again to wrench free.
Craning my neck in an attempt to get a look at the man’s face, I catch confusion flash across striking features.
The hands on my shoulders release, almost pushing me away.
I stumble to the side, away from both the hulking stranger and the door to the rare manuscript room. Threats at all sides.
“Tell me what you were doing.”
Warily, I try to put more distance between us and compel my voice not to quaver as I say, “You are not supposed to be in here. The library is closed. Y-you can come back during regular hours.”
“Stop wasting my time. Explain yourself. Now.” He steps toward me, his eyes dark and dangerous.
Now that I can get a good look at him, he is truly enormous, his muscular frame sculpted with raw power that strains the fabric of his gray henley.
Dark tactical pants cling to thick thighs, ending in heavy combat boots.
At my 5’3”, he towers over me by at least a foot.
His intimidating size makes me feel small and vulnerable, and I become acutely aware that I am alone with this menacing stranger.
That, alarmingly, no one knows where I am right now.
“Explain myself?” My voice hitches, a high, disbelieving sound, laced with hysteria.
But a small rush of indignation cuts through my fear.
“You’re trespassing in a restricted area, during a—a power outage, after I just had the most terrifying experience of my life, and you want me to explain myself?
” I gesture wildly toward the door to the special collections room, then, almost instinctively, shove my throbbing forearm behind my back, hiding the unfathomable mark. “Who even are you?”
The stranger’s response is swift and uncompromising. “Who I am is irrelevant.”
He takes another, more deliberate step, closing the space I just created, his attention fixed on me with a predatory focus.
His face is all sharp angles, coarse stubble, and intensity, emphasized by the way his brown hair is pulled away from his features in a rough bun.
As he draws closer, I stand stock-still, almost mesmerized.
He is, quite certainly, the most jaw-droppingly handsome man I have ever seen.
“What you are, Librarian, and what you just did in there. That’s what we’re discussing. ”
“How do you know I’m a librarian?” I say, latching onto the first thing I can think of that doesn’t involve me explaining my mental break from reality to this intimidating and demanding stranger.
“You’re in the library. Outside of regular hours. And you don’t exactly strike me as a thief, so.”
“By that logic, that makes you a librarian too.”
His mouth quirks in a small arrogant smile. “Do I look like a librarian to you?”
“No. And that’s exactly why you should be leaving now. Unless you are a thief, in which case . . .” I pull my phone from my back pocket. Actually, this is the best idea I’ve had all morning. I should call the police and be done with this whole thing.
“If I was a thief, do you really think threatening me with your phone would be a good idea right now?” He steps toward me, a wall of muscle and menace, his voice low and dangerous.
My hands are shaking, but I lift my chin in defiance. “I could call the cops on you,” I say as I begin to retreat from him, yet again.
“You wouldn’t have time,” he says with complete assurance, watching me continue to put distance between us.
Enough is enough. Why am I continuing to have this conversation? I burst into a run, at the same time unlocking my phone and starting to dial.
I only get to the nine in 9-1-1 before the stranger is on me.
He moves with inhuman speed. One large arm cinches around my waist, yanking me back against his powerful chest. His other hand snatches my wrist, forcing me to fling the phone away, before moving up to grip my chin.
I struggle, but it is like struggling against a concrete wall—utterly unyielding.
With this closeness, his scent now fills my nostrils: a wild, untamed fragrance of woodsmoke and pine, laced with something deeply masculine.
Against all logic, against every instinct of self-preservation, something in me responds to it.
Wants more of it. The thought is horrifying.
“Never run from me,” he growls.
Tears prick my eyes. “Please.”
With the fingers splayed over my jaw, he tilts my head up until I meet his eyes.
They are nearly eclipsed by darkness now, and he is breathing heavily behind me, the air hot on my neck.
I try to blink away the moisture in my eyes, not wanting him to see how afraid I am, but I only succeed in pushing out a few stray droplets.
At the sight of my tears, the hard lines of his face soften, a subtle shift that is almost imperceptible.
“Hey. Listen, I’m not going to hurt you.” Still, he holds fast to me.
I close my eyes and nod. What else can I do?
“I’m just trying to have a conversation with you.”
“Okay.”
“If I let you go, are you going to run again?”
I cycle through the scenarios in my mind.
My phone has skittered away across the floor; I’ll never get to it fast enough.
And with his speed, I can’t outrun him to escape onto the street.
Likewise, the thought of me physically overpowering him is laughable.
Then, there is the fact that it’s still so early that my colleagues won’t start arriving for work for at least another hour or two.
I am at his mercy. Maybe if I just answer his questions, he will let me go. It’s my only viable option at this point.
“No,” I whisper, my body sagging in defeat against him.
With an odd reluctance, he slowly uncurls his fingers from my chin, the heat of them lingering for a second as his hand falls away. The arm around my waist, however, tenses as if fighting an instinct to hold me even closer. A ragged exhale escapes him, and then, abruptly, he pulls away completely.
I stumble back a step, suddenly free. An inexplicable ache settles in my chest, a confusing sense of loss that defies the relief flooding me.
My gaze, still wide with a mix of fear and bewilderment, stays fixed on him as he takes another step back, as though he is now the one who needs distance between us.
When our eyes meet, I see a raw, almost painful intensity warring in their depths.
“Now,” he says, his voice rough. “Tell me what happened.”
“What if you don’t believe me?” I worry what he’ll do if he thinks I’m lying to him. Which he absolutely will, since my version of what just happened is, clinically, insane.
“I’ll believe it. Trust me.”
Reluctantly, I explain the morning, glossing over as much as I dare. Even still, it’s difficult to put into words; it’s all so incomprehensible and surreal. When I get to the crystal, his attention sharpens, and I unconsciously angle my arm away from him.
“I—I touched it,” I confess, feeling somehow guilty. “And then. Everything went crazy. I had strange perceptions, things that couldn’t possibly be. Like, like colors in the air. I know it’s irrational. And the room went cold, and the power went out, and I thought I saw—well, it doesn’t matter.”
“It does.” His voice is oddly reassuring, despite how frightening he is. He is taking my story seriously, even though nothing I am saying makes any sense.
Hugging myself, I whisper, “A shadow. Where it shouldn’t have been.
But then it was gone. I mean, I couldn’t have actually .
. . seen that. It was only a trick of the light.
The power went out shortly after, so it is reasonable to assume it was related, and—” I trail off, as the stranger’s head swivels to look at the door to the rare manuscript room.
Through the window, it’s clear that the lights are on, and everything looks very normal.
Still, he seems to be on full alert, like a wild beast sensing a threat.
Every muscle in his body is tense, and I realize that as imposing as he was before, that was his relaxed state.
Then his hands are on me again, this time softly on my shoulders. Although his entire body is taut, he is gentle as he guides me across the library toward the front desk, as far from the door as we can get without leaving the building. As we go, I huff, “It wasn’t real.”
His only response is a grunt, as he pushes me along, all the while keeping one eye on that door. And always keeping himself between me and it. I shouldn’t find that comforting, considering how he manhandled me just moments ago, yet somehow it is.
When he’s satisfied with our distance to the room, he stops and releases my shoulders, again with that strange hesitation.
“Where is the crystal? Give it to me, and all of this goes away.” He pauses, eyes lingering on me almost hungrily. “Including me.”
“It’s—” I swallow nervously. This is my shot. And I know I’ll only get one. “It’s back in the room. I dropped it when I got scared, and it—it slid. In between the stacks. I left it when I ran.”
“Right,” he says. “Word of advice, Librarian. Forget this happened.”
Then he prowls away, making his way to the special collections room. I watch him go, my heart pounding, forcing myself to stay in place until the door falls closed behind him.
As soon as he’s out of sight, I make a break for it, practically flying out of the library and through the side door onto the street. I saw how fast he is; it won’t take him long to realize the shard isn’t there.
Running faster than I’ve ever run in my whole life and without a care for how people stop to stare, I book it to the bus stop, jumping on the first one that will take me anywhere but here.