Daughter of None

3

“I’ll never understand why you insist on holing up with the brittle dead instead of joining me downstairs with the fun books,” Cas said, leaning his forearms on the edge of my table like he was about to deliver a secret. “We’ve got action. Adventure. Smut.”

His grin was boyish and wicked, and it took everything in me not to mirror it.

Cas—Castiel, if you were his mother or a government agency—worked in the basement archives and had for years. He stood tall, lean muscle stretching beneath a slate-gray T-shirt that clung just enough to be noticed. His jeans were worn soft, and his dark hair was cropped and spiked in a way that said he spent too long pretending not to style it. He hated the old-world weight of his full name, insisted it didn’t suit him. Cas did.

“You mean you prefer the dark, humid cavern where you can pop out for beer and s*x like some lascivious mole?” I asked, arching a brow.

His eyes sparked. “That’s all we need to survive, gorgeous.”

“We need food. You just need the other thing.”

He leaned closer, eyes gleaming. “You’re not denying you need it, too.”

I snorted softly, brushing a speck of lint from my glove. “Cas, not everyone sees the city’s nightlife as their personal hunting ground.”

“But that’s what makes it thrilling,” he said with a slow smile, one corner of his mouth hitching higher than the other. “Come out with me tonight. It’s been ages.”

Cas was a panther. Graceful. Observant. Patient when it suited him. The kind of man who didn’t chase women—he lured them. Clubs were his jungle. The beat of music, the glitter of lights, the heat of bodies pressing in close—it suited him. He was charming in the way that felt dangerous only after you’d already said yes.

It had been months since I’d joined him for a night out. I’d buried myself in parchment and restoration projects, letting the dusk hours pass quietly while I stayed curled in the comfort of my solitude.

“I shouldn’t,” I said, tugging the fragile book toward me. “I’ve got a lot of work.”

“Oh please. These books have survived plagues and purges. They’ll survive one night without you whispering sweet nothings to their spines.” He gave me a mock-solemn look. “Do it for me.”

I opened my mouth to respond—but didn’t.

He caught it. Cas was a master at catching silences.

His smile turned wolfish. “Lex,” he said slowly, “when’s the last time you actually got any release?”

My mind, traitorous thing that it was, immediately conjured that night—six months ago, bitter wind curling down empty streets, and Cas pulling me into him outside my apartment like the world might end if we didn’t touch. It was clumsy and hot and loud and completely necessary. We made it as far as the stairwell before he had me pressed to the wall, teeth grazing my jaw, my fingers twisting in his shirt. He carried me the rest of the way, used his spare key to get us inside, and took me right there on the living room floor like something primal.

“Exactly,” he said softly, as if he’d watched the memory play out behind my eyes. “Come out tonight. Have some damn fun.”

I blinked, pulling myself back to the present. I could feel the flush crawling up my neck and hated how pleased Cas looked to see it.

What we had was... comfortable. Friends, coworkers, and the occasional after-hours lapse in good judgment. We didn’t tangle emotions in it. There was no jealousy. No rules. Just release and recovery.

“Fine,” I said, already regretting it. “But I’ve got work to finish. Come by my place tonight.”

His entire expression lit up, all teeth and dimples. “Perfect. I’ll get us on a list somewhere with too much bass and too little lighting. Ten o’clock.”

I nodded and waved him off with a flick of my fingers. I didn’t have to look to know he was already sauntering back toward the stairs, no doubt on the hunt for some sweet young librarian to shamelessly charm before dinner.

I turned back to the tome, rethreaded my needle, and spent the next few hours in quiet, steady work. The binding was torn in three places and fragile with age, but I managed to reinforce the spine and fit a new protective sleeve around the cracked leather. Once complete, I checked the catalog number and made my way through the narrow stacks to return it to its place.

On the way, I spotted one of our regulars—Professor Eira Danthe—hunched over a reading table between two towering shelves. She was the type of academic who exuded quiet intensity, like she knew a hundred secrets and had decided not to share.

She adjusted a magnifier with practiced ease, the small tome before her lit by a dim spotlight that made the ancient ink shimmer faintly. I slowed as I passed, my eyes drawn to the unfamiliar symbols on the page.

“Curiosity, dear girl,” she said without looking up, “is not a weakness—so long as it’s followed by discretion.”

I smiled faintly. “Forgive the interruption, Professor.”

She lifted her gaze, sharp and still. Her age was difficult to pin down—her face flawless save for faint laugh lines near her mouth and eyes, her dark hair glossy enough to catch the dim overhead light. Her features were striking: angular cheekbones, steel-gray eyes, and long, black-lacquered fingernails that looked like they could slice through silk.

She studied me with a tilt of her head. “You’ve never asked what I study.”

I stepped closer, curiosity edging past my politeness. “What are you studying?”

“The history of your world,” she said, her voice almost amused.

I paused. “My world?”

But she had already turned back to the page, dismissing the moment with a graceful flick of her hand. Our previous conversations had never gone beyond the logistics of locating or returning volumes. Nothing like this.

She closed the tome with deliberate care and handed me a stack of ancient books for reshelving.

“Good day.” she said, already turning her attention elsewhere.

I took the volumes, cast one last glance at the strange text on the table, and made a mental note to return to it. Later.

When the air felt a little less charged.