The library was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows across the aged mahogany shelves. Dust motes swirled lazily in the golden glow, settling onto tomes filled with secrets of the dead. The storm raged outside, rain pelting against the stained-glass windows, but inside, a silence far more dangerous brewed.

He sat in his usual spot, back straight, fingers resting against his lips, lost in thought. The turtleneck he wore clung to him, stark black against the paleness of his skin, his jaw set in a sharp line. Lyric Voss. The man who read poetry like it was scripture, who knew the weight of every word, every pause. But now, his mind was elsewhere.

On her.

She stood across the room, her fingers trailing along the spines of books, unaware of the way his eyes darkened every time she moved.

Mine. The thought came unbidden, raw and sharp. He exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to stay still.

The candlelight flickered against her skin as she finally turned, her gaze locking onto his. Something inside him coiled tight. A fucking live wire. She had no idea what she did to him—how she unraveled every ounce of logic he had, how she turned a man of reason into something unhinged.

Lyric didn't smile. He simply tilted his head, letting the silence stretch, letting her feel the weight of his attention. Then, slow as sin, he spoke, his voice low, controlled. "Baby."

Her breath hitched. Fuck. That reaction. He could live off it.

The air between them crackled, tension thick like old parchment, like ink spilled in the margins of forbidden books.