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When I finally reach the library, my heart almost gives way.
Sitting at our desk with his feet on the table, and casually flicking through my notes, is Finlay.
He looks wildly entertained by whatever nonsense I wrote in there this morning, his intricately inked fingers turning through pages.
What the hell? No. This isnotacceptable.
I’m about to storm in there and give him a piece of my mind, but Finlay glances up at the doorway. There’s something in his expression that darkens as he takes me in, but I swear I must have imagined it because he slowly raises one of those inked fingers to his lips, casting his eyes to the side of the room.
He’s trying to tell me something. And as I step into the empty library, that’s when I hear it.
A low whine.
A gulping breath.
Finlay idly turns the page of my notebook, tutting at something I’ve written. He grabs the pen from behind his ear and my eyes widen as he actuallycrosses something out. Bastard!
But the breathy noises from behind the shelves keep coming. It sounds as though someone’s crying and they’re trying hard to keep it quiet. But then, why would Finlay just be sitting there, as casual as a king? Unless he really is as heartless as the company he keeps…
I step further into the library, and the playful expression on Finlay’s face changes. The darkness that I thought I’d imagined returns and he rips a page from my notebook, scribbling something down. He holds the paper out to me.
Say nothing.
I frown. I mean, I understood that from the finger on his lips, and I feel like this wasn’t worth sacrificing a page of my notebook.
But Finlay continues writing.
You shouldn’t be here.
I look at him, and then my eyes flick in the direction of the noise. No. This iswrong. If someone’s upset, then they should be helped. It’s the way I’ve been raised. It’s not right to sit there and act weirdly smug about it.
As I move in the direction of the shelves, Finlay grabs my wrist. I stare down at him in surprise, his grasp warm and secure. He softly taps the wordsYou shouldn’t be here, but I glare at him and wrench my wrist free.
What is it, I wonder. Did he beat someone up and leave them to moan in agony behind the bookshelves?
But as I make my way past the thick rows of wooden shelves, delving deeper into the darkness and the dust, I realize I might have gotten the wrong end of the stick.
They’re not moaning inpain…
I lurch behind the shelf closest to the noise and peer over a hardback volume ofScottish Topographia 1890-1910.
The sight that greets my eyes makes me cling onto the wooden shelf to support myself.
It’s Rory.
But I don’t know where to look. The scene before me hits like a train — too suddenly and all at once — until all my brain can process is a patchwork of different details.
The curl of Rory’s hair as it falls into his closed eyes, the most unkempt I’ve seen him so far.
The parting of his lips as silent sighs pour from it.
His blissed-out expression as he buries himself deep into the body before him.
The tartan of the Lochkelvin skirt turning wavy as it’s flipped and pulled, the fabric trembling around the two connected bodies next to it.
The tautness of Rory’s muscled forearm as it curves beneath the waistband of the Lochkelvin skirt.
The firmness of his hand as it quashes the noise from the mouth it hides.
