The Devil's Archivist

Chapter 9

August POV:

Three weeks after the raid on the Blackwood Estate, the autumn leaves on campus had turned from brilliant orange to a deep, bruised crimson.

The university was barely recognizable. Half the board of trustees had been indicted on federal charges, Julian Vance was awaiting trial in a maximum-security facility, and the dreaded name of The Order of the Bramble was no longer a shadowy secret—it was the subject of national headlines.

Yet, walking through the fog-shrouded quad on a cold Monday morning, I didn't feel afraid anymore.

For the first time in four years, I wore my leather coat with my hands loosely tucked into my pockets, no longer scanning every shadow for red roses or sealed black envelopes.

I made my way down the stone steps of Founders Hall, descending into the subterranean archives beneath the university library. The cold, heavy air smelled familiar—dust, old leather, and cedarwood.

I opened the heavy iron door without knocking.

Sitting behind the grand mahogany desk was Christopher.

He was officially reinstated as the university's Head Archivist after the federal investigation cleared him of any wrongdoing. He wore a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black vest tailored to perfection, and silver-rimmed reading glasses resting on the bridge of his nose as he reviewed ancient leather-bound manuscripts.

When the iron door clicked shut, he didn't look up immediately, but a slow, dangerous smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"You're five minutes late for your research session, Miss Vance," he purred, his voice smooth, gravelly, and instantly sending a warm pulse straight down my spine.

"Traffic on the quad, Professor," I replied softly, stepping past the velvet ropes and walking straight toward his desk.

Christopher took off his glasses, tossing them onto the desk, his golden eyes locking onto mine with that same intense, possessive flare that made my breath catch every single time.

Before I could say another word, his hand shot out, wrapping tightly around my waist, and pulled me directly onto his lap. I gasped, my hands instinctively coming down onto his broad shoulders as he pulled me flush against his chest.

"I missed you this morning," he whispered into my neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right against my pulse point.

"I had an eight a.m. political science lecture," I laughed softly, tangling my fingers into his dark, thick hair. "And you know we can't be caught doing this in the archives during open hours."

"Let them catch us," Christopher growled low, his thumb tracing the curve of my bottom lip before leaning up to capture my mouth in a deep, slow kiss that completely stole the air from my lungs. It was thorough, demanding, and tasted like dark coffee and cedar.

When he finally pulled back, his golden eyes searched my face. "How are you feeling? Really?"

"I'm good," I admitted, resting my forehead against his. "It feels surreal. The campus feels... normal. No threats. No letters."

Christopher’s grip on my waist tightened slightly. "I submitted the final deposition regarding Clara yesterday. Her case is officially closed, August. She can finally rest."

A soft, genuine smile spread across my face. I cupped his sharp jawline, my thumb gently tracing his cheekbone. "And what about you, Christopher? Are you free now?"

"Only when I'm with you," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips.

Before he could lean in again, a heavy, metallic THUD echoed from the restricted vault deep in the back of the archives—a room that had been sealed off since the federal agents cleared out the Order's records two weeks ago.

Christopher’s body went instant stone-still.

The warmth in his amber eyes vanished, replaced in a split second by the cold, lethal killer who had protected me at the Gala. He pushed me gently off his lap, standing up in one fluid motion and shielding me behind his broad frame.

"Christopher..." I whispered, my heart spiking against my ribs. "Was someone down here?"

"Stay behind me," he commanded, his hand sliding smoothly to the underside of his desk where his holster rested.

He moved silently across the stone floor toward the dark, arched doorway of the restricted vault. The air in the corridor suddenly felt icy, smelling faintly of damp soil and fresh ink.

Christopher pushed the heavy vault door open, his weapon drawn.

The vault was empty. But sitting right in the center of the iron study table—placed directly under the single hanging lightbulb—was a small, velvet-lined box.

And inside the box lay a single black leather journal, stamped with a gold crest that didn't belong to the Order of the Bramble. Beside it was a small piece of parchment written in fresh crimson ink:

The Bramble was merely the garden, Archivist. Welcome to the Roots.