The Devil's Archivist

Chapter 7

August POV:

The morning light filtering through the sheer black curtains was pale and weak.

I woke up wrapped in heavy charcoal sheets, the intoxicating scent of cedarwood, rain, and clean linen instantly enveloping my senses. My body felt warm, slightly sore, and thoroughly claimed.

I turned my head. The space beside me was empty, the sheets cold.

A sudden spike of panic flared in my chest until my eyes adjusted to the room. This wasn't my cramped, dreary dorm room with its carved desk and broken lock.

This was a massive, gothic bedroom with high vaulted ceilings, dark velvet drapery, and a grand stone fireplace crackling softly in the corner.

Christopher’s private estate.

He had carried me out of my dorm in the middle of the night, wrapped in his heavy wool coat, and driven us through the fog to his secluded residence on the far eastern edge of campus.

I sat up, pulling the thick duvet around my chest. On the nightstand sat a fresh cup of tea, still steaming, beside a handwritten note in sharp calligraphy:

Stay inside. The doors are locked from the outside for your safety. I will return before noon. — C

I stared at the note, my thumb tracing the sharp edge of the paper. A complex mix of emotions churned in my stomach. Last night had been explosive, raw, and completely uninhibited. For the first time since the letters started, I had felt safe in his arms.

But I was still in the dark.

He had taken my body, claimed me as his, and moved me into his home—yet he still refused to tell me who was targeting me or why he was so deeply involved.

"Locked from the outside," I muttered under my breath, tossing the duvet aside. "We'll see about that."

I stood up, pulling on one of Christopher’s oversized black silk button-down shirts that hung on the back of a leather chair. It fell down to my mid-thighs, smelling entirely of him.

I padded silently across the polished hardwood floor and tried the bedroom door. The brass handle turned effortlessly, swinging open to reveal a grand, dimly lit hallway lined with antique oil paintings and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

He hadn't locked the bedroom—he meant the front doors of the estate.

My heart beat faster as I walked down the quiet corridor. The house was enormous, eerie, and dead quiet save for the patter of rain against the stained-glass windows.

At the end of the hall stood a double set of dark oak doors. His private study.

I pushed one open.

The room smelled of old leather, ink, and whiskey. A massive mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, lit by the pale gray light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Behind the desk was a wall covered entirely in floor-to-ceiling maps, newspaper clippings, and hand-drawn diagrams, all connected by crimson thread.

I stepped closer, my breath catching in my throat.

It was a investigation board.

My eyes scanned the photos pinned to the corkboard. Dozens of young women—students from Blackwood University over the past decade. Beside each photo was a date: October 31st.

Then my eyes landed on a faded photograph pinned right at the very center of the web.

A young woman, maybe twenty-one, with bright dark eyes and a warm smile that looked eerily familiar.

Underneath her photo was a name written in Christopher's sharp handwriting:

CLARA VANCE. Disappeared: October 31st, 2019. Status: Deceased / Covered Up.

My blood ran completely cold.

Clara Vance. She had my last name—or rather, a distant branch of the same bloodline that founded parts of the original town.

Beside her photo was a handwritten case file labeled THE ORDER OF THE BRAMBLE. I reached out with a trembling hand, opening the heavy folder. Inside were detailed dossiers on the university board members, financial audit logs, and a horrifying list of ritualistic dates.

The Harvest requires a pure bloodline descendant every five years to maintain the secret society's offshore trusts and immunity. Next marked target: August Vance.

I stumbled back, the folder slipping from my fingers and scattering papers across the hardwood floor.

He wasn't protecting me just because he was the archivist. He was hunting them. His sister had been murdered by the same secret society five years ago, and he had spent half a decade infiltrating Blackwood to tear them down.

"I told you not to look into things that don't concern you, August."

I spun around, my back slamming against the edge of the desk.

Christopher stood in the doorway.

He wore a dark coat drenched in rain, his dark hair damp against his forehead. His golden eyes were fixed on the scattered papers on the floor, his face completely devoid of emotion—a cold, terrifying marble mask.

"Christopher..." I gasped, my chest heaving as I clutched his silk shirt against my collarbone. "Your sister... Clara..."

Christopher closed the door behind him with a quiet, heavy click. He slowly unbuttoned his coat, tossing it onto a chair, his amber eyes pinning me in place as he took slow, deliberate strides toward me.

"She was twenty-one," he said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet whisper that was far more terrifying than raised anger. "They took her from her dorm room five years ago. They bled her out in the catacombs beneath the library and burned her remains so the school's board wouldn't lose their precious funding."

He stopped directly in front of me, crowding my space until I was trapped against his desk.

"I spent five years becoming the monster they feared just to get close enough to put a knife in their throats," Christopher whispered, reaching out to gently cup my face, his warm thumb resting against my trembling lips. "And then you walked into my archives with that rose scent on your skin."

"You used me?" I choked out, looking up into his fierce, golden gaze. "Was last night just... a way to keep your target close?"

Christopher’s grip on my jaw tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to lock my gaze onto his. His golden eyes flared with a sudden, violent intensity.

"Don't ever say that," he growled low in his chest, leaning down until his lips hovered a millimeter from mine. "I would burn this entire university to the ground and slaughter every man sitting on that board before I let them lay a single finger on you, August."

"Then let me help you," I whispered back, my hand reaching up to cover his on my jaw. "Stop hiding behind the villain mask. If they're coming for me on October 31st... let's give them a fight."

Christopher stared down at me, his jaw flexing as he searched my eyes. A slow, dark smirk curled the corner of his lips.

"You really are a dangerous little bird, aren't you?" he murmured, leaning down to press a deep, possessive kiss against my mouth.