The library at St. Jude's was a cathedral of hushed breaths and the scent of decaying paper. For Lyra, it was the only place where her silence felt natural rather than forced. Here, no one expected her to speak. She sat in the furthest corner of the mezzanine, tucked between the stacks of classic poetry and ancient history, a place where the shadows felt like old friends.
She was trying to focus on her history assignment, but the ink on the page seemed to liquefy, shifting into the shape of Silas's cold, predatory eyes. Her shoulder still ached from where he had gripped her that morning. It wasn't just a bruise of the flesh; it was a bruise of the spirit. She could still feel the phantom heat of his breath against her neck, a reminder that even here, under the fluorescent lights of a school library, she was never truly alone. He was a god of her private hell, and she was his most devoted, silent martyr.
Then, the chair across from her scraped against the linoleum.
Lyra flinched, her pen skidding across her notebook, leaving a jagged black scar on the paper. She didn't look up. She didn't need to. The air suddenly tasted of citrus and the outdoors—the unmistakable scent of Julian.
Lyra's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She kept her gaze locked on her book, her knuckles white. Go away, she pleaded silently. You're too bright. You'll catch fire if you stay near me.
Julian didn't go away. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. He watched her with a terrifying intensity, his honey-brown eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her lowered lashes.
"I brought you this," he said, sliding a small, wrapped chocolate bar across the table. It tapped against her hand. "You didn't eat lunch. I watched you. You just sat under the oak tree and stared at nothing."
The kindness in his voice felt like a blade. It cut through the thick layers of numbness she had spent years cultivating. She stared at the chocolate. It was a simple thing, a normal thing, but in her world, nothing was ever free. Every gift from Silas came with a price paid in pain or dignity. She recoiled slightly, her hand twitching away from the candy as if it were a live coal.
"Hey," Julian murmured, his tone shifting. It was softer now, thick with a teasing warmth that made her skin prickle. "I didn't poison it. I promise."
He reached out. It was a slow, deliberate movement, giving her every chance to bolt. He didn't grab her. He simply laid his hand flat on the table, inches from hers. The heat radiating from his skin was a physical force.
"Lyra," he whispered. "Look at me."
Against every instinct she possessed, she lifted her head.
Julian wasn't looking at her with the pity she sometimes saw in teachers' eyes, nor with the dark, possessive hunger of Silas. He looked at her with a raw, unfiltered curiosity, as if she were a beautiful, broken melody he was desperate to learn.
"There you are," he breathed.
He moved his hand, his fingers trailing slowly across the polished wood of the table until they brushed against her own. The contact was electric. It wasn't the cold, sterile touch she was used to; it was a feverish, living heat.
He didn't pull back when she shivered. Instead, he grew bolder. His fingers slid over her knuckles, tracing the delicate bones of her hand with a terrifyingly gentle caress. It was a tease—a slow, agonizingly beautiful intrusion into her personal space. He leaned closer, until she could see the golden flecks in his irises, until she could hear the steady rhythm of his own heart.
"You're so quiet," he whispered, his face now only inches from hers. "But your eyes... they're screaming, Lyra. What are they saying?"
He tilted his head, his gaze dropping to her lips. The air between them thickened, turning into something heavy and sweet. Lyra felt a sob build in her chest—not of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated terror and a shameful, aching need. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to burn away the memory of Silas's hands with the fire of his own.
Julian's thumb brushed the sensitive skin of her wrist, right over her racing pulse. He felt it—the frantic, bird-like beat of her heart. A small, knowing smile played on his lips. It was a "Golden Boy" smile, confident and kind, yet underscored by a sudden, raw hunger.
"Your heart is moving so fast," he teased, his voice dropping to a gravelly silk. He leaned in further, his nose almost brushing against hers. "Are you afraid of me, Lyra? Or are you afraid of how much you want me to stay?"
He let his hand slide up her arm, his fingers trailing a path of fire along the underside of her forearm. It was a caress that felt like a promise and a threat all at once. Lyra's breath hitched, a soft, broken sound escaping her throat—the first sound she had made in weeks.
Julian's eyes darkened. "That's it," he whispered. "Let me hear you."
He moved as if to close the final inch, his lips ghosting near the corner of her mouth. Lyra closed her eyes, her entire body trembling on the precipice of a collapse. For a heartbeat, she forgot about the mafia. She forgot about the bruises. She forgot about the blood that paid for the clothes on her back.
But then, the library's heavy oak doors swung open with a distant, echoing thud.
The sound was a gunshot in Lyra's mind. It sounded like the front door of the Silas estate. The spell shattered. The warmth of Julian's touch suddenly felt like a brand—a piece of evidence that would get him killed.
She wrenched her arm away, the movement so violent she nearly tipped her chair. Her eyes were wide, flooded with a primal, raw fear that made Julian flinch back in shock.
"Lyra? Wait—"
She didn't wait. She gathered her books with shaking hands, her breath coming in jagged, wheezing gasps. She couldn't look at him. If she looked at him, she would fall apart, and if she fell apart, Silas would win.
She bolted from the mezzanine, her footsteps frantic on the stairs. She ran through the halls, the scent of Julian—rain and citrus—clinging to her skin like a beautiful sin she would have to scrub off with boiling water before she got home.
As she burst through the school's exit, the cold afternoon air hit her face, but it did nothing to cool the burn on her arm. She didn't know that Julian was still standing in the library, staring at his own hand, feeling the echo of her pulse against his skin, wondering what kind of monster could make a girl that beautiful look that haunted.
And she didn't know that back at the estate, Silas was sitting in his leather-bound office, staring at a security feed from the school's perimeter, a glass of bourbon in one hand and a dark, clinical curiosity in his eyes. The hunt was beginning, and the silence was about to get much, much louder.