Page 67 of The Alien in the Archive

“What is this?” he asks, taking it.

“Well, it’s a notebook?—”

“Obviously,” he mutters. “But I have notebooks?—”

“It’s for a specific purpose,” I interject. “You said your people erased their history. Maybe it’s time someone started writing it again.”

He looks at the journal, then at me. For a minute, I think he’s going to refuse; he’s been conflicted about telling that story, even to me.

But then he nods, slipping it into the pocket of his hoodie.

“Thank you,” he says, then he takes my hands again, pulling me in close. “Page…about last night…”

I blush, remembering what I did. It was basically psychic sexting, with all the messy parts included. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “I was pretty drunk.”

He tilts my chin up again, gazes into my eyes. “It felt good,” he says. “And I want you to know I want nothing morethan to take you back with me tonight and doexactlywhat we did in that fantasy.”

My breath quickens. I take another step toward him, reaching out to curl my fingers in the fabric of his hoodie. “I want?—”

“But that’s why we need to exercise caution,” he interrupts. “Page…for any species that doesn’t experience telepathy, it takes time to build to this kind of intimacy. But with us…”

He smooths his hand over my cheek. I lean into it, eyelashes fluttering as I close my eyes and remember: his touch, the way he saw me, the things he said…

He makes a rough sound low in his throat. “You’re doing it now,” he says. “And I need you—we both need to be careful with each other. Already, you know me better than anyone has in well over a thousand years. Maybe longer.”

My breath shudders at the realization of what that means. Even before he came to the library, before he turned against the Empire…I’m the closest?

“I understand.” I turn my head to kiss his palm. “So…we wait. I go home tonight. I desperately try not to have any more sex dreams. And then…?”

He’s smiling when I look at him again, devastatingly handsome. “We meet again tomorrow,” he says. “Evaluate, again, if this is real. And then…maybe.”

He really loves the word ‘maybe’—and it seems that’s all I’m getting tonight.

I let out a shaky laugh. “You know, you’re frustratingly good at being mysterious. Can’t you just give a straight answer for once?”

Thorne chuckles, a low, rich sound that makes my chest ache. “If I gave you straight answers all the time, you’d get bored of me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’d have to try a lot harder than that for me to lose interest.”

He looks like he’s about to respond, then we hear voices down the staircase. They’re not coming up, but they might…which means it’s time for us to go.

“Shall we?” he asks, extending his hand.

“We shall,” I smile, taking it.

25

THORNE

The texture of the Obscuary’s silence has changed.

For a long time, it was a relief—researchers would leave for the day, and I could roam as I pleased. Silence was silk, a smooth and comfortable blanket I could wrap myself in, shielding me from the mess of emotions and memories I tried so hard to bury.

Now, the silence is coarse. It grates on me, a constant reminder of a painful absence.

She’s trying to keep her thoughts private tonight.

It’s agonizing.

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