Bitter inheritance

chapter 9

### Chapter Ten: What the Archive Knows

They didn't get to the archives that night. Or rather, they did — but not for the reason either of them had planned.

It started innocently enough, both of them hunched over decades-old ledgers in the private reading room, the single desk lamp throwing everything into gold and shadow. Elena's shoulder pressed against his as she reached for a folder, and Damian went still in the particular way that told her exactly where his mind had gone.

"You're not concentrating," she said, without looking up.

"I'm aware." His voice had dropped low, rough at the edges. "It's difficult to concentrate on your father's crimes when you keep doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Biting your lip like that. It's distracting." He set down the ledger he wasn't reading. "You've been doing it for twenty minutes."

"Maybe I'm nervous."

"Maybe." His hand found the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair, and any pretense of research disappeared entirely. "Or maybe you knew exactly what you were doing."

"Maybe I did." She turned into his hand, let her mouth find his in the low lamp light, and felt the last of his restraint give way in one long exhale against her lips.

He kissed her like a man settling an old, overdue debt — unhurried at first, then not unhurried at all, backing her against the reading room's ancient velvet armchair with a hand splayed possessive over her hip. She felt the low sound he made when her fingers found the collar of his shirt, felt him shudder when her nails dragged lightly along his jaw.

"The door," she managed, breathless, "locks. Doesn't it."

"It does." His mouth moved to the curve of her throat, teeth grazing skin in a way that made her gasp. "I locked it before I sat down. I had intentions tonight, Elena Voss. Fontaine just moved up the timeline."

Whatever answer she meant to give dissolved the moment he pulled her into his lap, and the reading room lamp burned low and gold over the two of them until neither the ledgers nor Raphael Fontaine mattered at all for several very thorough hours

It was well past midnight before they returned to the archive folders, tangled together on the floor amid scattered papers, Damian's shirt discarded somewhere near the door and Elena wearing only his jacket against the chill.

"We should be worried," she murmured against his chest, "about a blackmailer with proof my father was a smuggler."

"We should," Damian agreed, pressing a slow kiss to her temple. "Tomorrow. Tonight I intend to be selfish about exactly one thing."

She didn't argue.