She stood, a little stiff but steady. When she took a step, I adjusted my position automatically, close enough to catch her if she faltered.
She did not.
As she led me deeper into the building, I registered the shift in my focus.
The human world had always felt disorganized and unsafe. Full of variables my father had taught me to avoid, but this woman walked through it with competence and quiet defiance, even shaken, even hurt.
And because of me, she had been targeted.
I would not allow that to happen again.
7
ARTEMIS
I tugged my sleeves down over my wrists before I started walking.
The instinct to mask was automatic. Hide the marks. Make it normal. If I couldn’t see them, maybe my body would stop feeling plastic biting into skin.
I didn’t look at him as I led him down the corridor.
The library felt different, yet still the same. Too quiet. Like it knew something had happened and was pretending it hadn’t. The lights hummed. The carpet muffled our steps. Everything was exactly how it should be, which felt rude.
I focused on my breathing and the familiar turns. Left past reference. Right at periodicals.
Don’t think about vans. Don’t think about chairs. Don’t think about how close I came to becoming a headline.
Compartmentalize. Falling apart could come later. Now was for finishing the task.
I stopped outside the door to the rare books room and performed my ritual of washing my hands and drying them thoroughly. “Uhm, if you’re going to be handling the book, please wash and dry your hands. Clean, dry hands have better tactile sensitivity than wearing gloves, so there’s less of a risk of tearing the brittle pages.”
He nodded, then washed and dried his hands just as thoroughly as I had.
Once that was done, I keyed into the room and anchored myself to the cold air inside. Controlled temperature. A space I understood with its usual hush, the soft hum of the dedicated HVAC system keeping everything cool and dry. No dust. No sunlight. Just perfect, careful stillness. My favorite place in the entire building.
I stepped aside so he could enter, trying very hard not to notice how he took up most of the doorway of the place that was my sanctuary.
And this man treated it like one.
His expression shifted into something reverent. He paused just inside the threshold instead of striding through. His gaze moved slowly around the room, taking in the monitors, the sealed cases, the careful spacing between shelves. He didn’t touch anything. The respect was visible in the way he held himself—spine straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back, like a knight who had just entered a cathedral.
“It’s remarkable,” he murmured, looking over the room with slow attention.
My heart thudded once, too hard.
I’d actually impressed him. And standing beside him, watching his awe unfold like aquiet sunrise…
I felt something unfamiliar settle into my chest. Something warm, insistent.
Something that felt like the beginning of a story I hadn’t realized I’d already started writing.
He stayed close. Just there. Like a wall you didn’t notice until you leaned back and realized it was holding you up.
I swallowed and turned to him.
“Well,” I said, because silence felt dangerous, “this is officially the weirdest way a library book has ever tried to kill me.”
He chuckled—low and warm—and I swore my knees tried to liquefy.
