The Devil's Archivist

Chapter 3

August POV:

I didn’t sleep a single second.

Every creek of the ancient floorboards in my dorm had me sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching my brass lamp like a lunatic. The image of Christopher’s burning amber eyes, the searing warmth of his fingers on my wrist, and the lethal promise in his voice haunted my head all night long.

Run along, August. Before you find out.

By 8:00 AM, the rain had settled into a thick, dreary fog that clung to the gothic stone archways of campus. I dragged myself across the quad to Founders Hall for my advanced historical literature seminar, clutching a steaming cup of black coffee like a lifeline.

I just needed a normal day. I needed to sit in a bright classroom, listen to a boring lecture on medieval trade routes, and convince myself that the creepy letter and the rose were just a elaborate, twisted prank.

I walked into the auditorium, dropping my heavy leather bag onto a desk in the third row. The room was bustling with groggy students, paper shuffling, and muffled chatter.

Then, the door at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

The entire room went dead silent.

It wasn't Professor Vance who walked up to the podium.

It was him.

Christopher wore a dark charcoal suit today, tailored so impeccably it made him look like a billionaire heir who played with empires for fun. His dark hair was styled loosely, a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, corded forearms laced with silver scars.

The female students around me collectively held their breath. A few whispered frantically to each other.

"Where is Professor Vance?" someone near the back called out.

Christopher didn't even look up as he unbuttoned his jacket and set a heavy, leather-bound textbook on the wooden podium. His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the quiet room like a blade.

"Professor Vance has taken an sudden leave of absence due to family matters," Christopher said calmly. His amber eyes swept across the room, completely indifferent to the dozens of staring eyes. "I will be overseeing this course until further notice. I expect complete silence during my lectures, and I do not give extension credits. Am I understood?"

A collective nod echoed through the room. Nobody dared to argue. The man practically radiated dominance.

And then, his gaze shifted.

His golden eyes locked onto mine in the third row.

My breath hitched in my throat. My pulse did a violent, erratic double-beat against my ribs. For a agonizing three seconds, Christopher just stared at me. His expression didn't change—it remained a mask of cold, professional detachment—but I saw the dangerous, dark flare in his eyes. He was checking me over. Making sure I was whole. Making sure I hadn't disappeared in the night.

Slowly, he tore his gaze away, uncapping a fountain pen. "Open your texts to page forty-two."

For the next hour, I couldn't focus on a single word he said.

His voice was pure dark silk, smooth and hypnotic as he broke down centuries-old manuscripts. But every time he walked past my row, the heat radiating off his body set my skin on fire. The scent of cedarwood, rain, and cold air drifted over my desk, making my stomach do dangerous flips.

When the bell finally rang, sending a rush of relief through the students, everyone scrambled to pack their bags.

"Miss Vance," Christopher’s deep voice cut through the noise of zipping backpacks. "A word before you leave."

My hand froze on my notebook. A few girls nearby cast jealous, curious glances in my direction as they shuffled out the door. I waited until the heavy double doors clicked shut, leaving us completely alone in the massive, echoing hall.

I stood up, holding my notebook against my chest like a shield, and walked down the steps toward his podium.

"Mr. Christopher," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible. "I believe you have something of mine."

Christopher leaned back against the edge of the mahogany desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His tailored suit stretched over his shoulders, outlining his muscular frame. Up close, he was so devastatingly handsome it was almost unfair.

"If you're referring to that absurd little letter, I threw it away," he said smoothly, his eyes lingering on the column of my throat. "It was trash."

"It was evidence," I corrected, stepping closer, refusing to let him intimidate me. "Someone threatened me, Christopher. Someone left a blood-stained rose on my threshold, and you reacted like you knew exactly what it meant."

Christopher’s jaw flexed. He stood up to his full height, instantly invading my personal space. He moved so fast, so fluidly, that before I could step back, he was standing directly in front of me.

The heat of his body washed over me, thick and suffocating.

"I told you to drop this, August," he growled low, his voice a dangerous whisper that sent a thrill straight down my spine. He reached out, his long, warm fingers gently catching a strand of my hair that had fallen out of my clip, tucking it behind my ear.

His fingertips brushed the sensitive skin of my neck. I gasped softly, a sudden spike of raw electricity shooting through my body.

My eyes fluttered shut for a split second at his touch, and I hated how badly my body craved it.

"You're playing with fire," Christopher whispered, his thumb resting against my jawline. He was so close I could feel the rise and fall of his chest against mine, could see the tiny gold flecks in his amber eyes. "And if you keep digging into things that don't concern you... you're going to get burned."

"Are you going to burn me, Christopher?" I whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, breathless.

A dark, dangerous smirk curled his lips, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

"I'm the only thing keeping you from turning into ash," he murmured, his thumb brushing over my lower lip with a gentle, possessive pressure that made my knees go weak. "Now get to your next class, little bird. Before I forget my place.