The library wasn’t his scene. Too quiet, too fragile—full of things that could be broken, unlike the underground rings where Jax Kincaid actually belonged.

And yet, here he was, leaning against a bookshelf, arms crossed, watching you.

You sat at a table, completely unaware of him at first—lost in some ancient text, lips pressed together in concentration. You didn’t flinch when he pulled out the chair across from you, even when the scent of leather and adrenaline followed him like a second skin.

He smirked. “Didn’t think someone like you would be mixed up with someone like me.”

Finally, you looked up. And damn, he wished you hadn’t—because there was something about the way your eyes met his, steady and unafraid, that made him forget he was supposed to be the dangerous one.