Caught
706 Words
The library at midnight belonged to no one.
That was the theory, anyway. In practice, it belonged to Seraphine, three nights running now, tucked into the back corner where the archive terminals lived, far from the cameras that watched the main reading room and conveniently blind to this particular alcove.
She'd found that out the hard way. By "hard way" she meant five minutes with a floor plan and a working knowledge of where institutions liked to save money on security.
Tonight's target: disciplinary records. Specifically, anything filed under the east wing in the last six months.
She typed fast, eyes flicking between the screen and the door every few seconds. Old habit. Good habit.
Restricted access, equipment storage, east corridor, sublevel 2. Filed three months ago. Reason: redacted.
Her pulse ticked up.
Three months. Right around when Eli would have—
"Working late."
She didn't jump. She'd trained herself out of jumping a long time ago. But her hand moved to the keyboard fast enough to minimize the window before she turned.
Damian stood at the end of the row, one shoulder against a bookshelf, like he'd been there a while.
"Apparently," she said. "You too."
"I don't sleep much."
"Neither do I, it seems."
He pushed off the shelf and walked toward her with the kind of unhurried pace that made the small space feel smaller. She didn't move back. She wasn't about to give him that.
"What are you researching at midnight," he said, "that couldn't wait until morning?"
"History essay." The lie came easy, smooth, practiced. "Blackthorn's founding. Riveting stuff."
"Mm."
He didn't believe her. She could tell by the way he said it, one syllable, completely flat, doing absolutely nothing to hide his skepticism.
He stepped closer, and before she could shift the screen, his eyes dropped onto it.
She felt it the second he saw something, the slight change in his stillness, a fraction of a beat where his expression actually moved instead of staying locked in its usual neutral setting.
Restricted access, equipment storage, east corridor.
She hadn't minimized fast enough.
"That's an odd choice of reading," he said, "for someone writing about Blackthorn's founding."
Her heart did something complicated. Not panic. Closer to the feeling of a door creaking open that she hadn't checked was locked.
"I get distracted," she said. "Rabbit holes. You know how it is."
"Do I."
He was close now. Close enough that she had to actually tip her head back slightly to hold his gaze, which she hated, because it meant he'd see exactly how unbothered she wasn't.
His eyes moved over her face the way they had in the corridor that first night, assessing, careful, like he was looking for something specific and hadn't found it yet.
"You ask a lot of questions for someone who doesn't want attention," he said quietly.
"I don't ask questions. I read history."
"Sure."
The word landed exactly the way it had after the sparring match, disbelieving, and entirely uninterested in pushing further. Not yet, anyway.
He straightened, putting half a step of distance between them that did absolutely nothing to ease the tightness in her chest.
"Lock the terminal when you're done," he said. "Some of us actually do walk through here at night."
"Noted."
He held her gaze a beat longer than the conversation required.
Then he turned and walked off between the shelves, footsteps unhurried, and disappeared around the corner without looking back.
Seraphine sat very still for several seconds.
Then she pulled the screen back up, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and read the line again.
Restricted access. Three months ago. Reason: redacted.
She didn't know yet if he'd filed away what he'd seen or forgotten it by morning. She didn't know if he had any idea what it meant.
But she knew, with absolute clarity, that Damian Volkoff didn't forget things.
She closed the terminal, gathered her things, and left the library faster than she'd planned to.
Behind her, unnoticed, a single light blinked on in a server room three floors below — a routine system log, automatically recording every search made that night, attached to a username that wasn't hers.
She had been careful.
She had not been careful enough.
- Writer
