Page 59 of The Alien in the Archive

“This is not for you,” I say.

He chirps, clearly unconvinced.

I sink into my chair, the worn leather groaning beneath me, and flip the book open to a random page. A paragraph leaps out, a heated exchange between the heroine and the mysterious stranger who’s been haunting her dreams.

"His lips hovered inches from hers, his breath a warm caress against her skin. ‘Tell me to stop,’ he murmured, his voice a low growl, thick with desire. ‘Tell me to stop, and I will walk away.’"

My stomach churns with fascination, heat climbing into my chest and making a home there. The writing is…melodramatic. Overwrought. But there’s something about it that feels oddly familiar. The tension, the restraint barely holding back a tidal wave of emotion, the way every word feels like a last gasp for sanity.

It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous.

And yet…

I keep reading, skimming through scenes that range from laughable to downright baffling. The hero—some brooding loner with a penchant for standing dramatically in the rain—spends an inordinate amount of time gazing at the heroine like she’s the last star in the sky. The heroine, for her part, alternates between fiery independence and inexplicable swooning.

Not unlike Page, I realize.

I shake my head.

And keep reading.

The thing is…there’s something to this. Something beneath all the flowery prose and improbable plot lines. The characters might be laughably exaggerated, but the emotions? Those feel real. The longing, the vulnerability…

I watched her like that, didn’t I? Not brooding in the rain, but in the stacks; wanting her so badly it ached.

I think of Page again. Of the way she looks at me—sharp, curious, unflinching. The way she doesn’t shy away, even when she should.

The way she let me touch her last night—asked meto touch her—as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I close the book, my chest tight.

“This is a terrible idea,” I mutter to myself.

Ashlan’s antennae flicker as he curls up on the desk beside the discarded book.

But it’s not like I’m going to stop.

I pull another book from the pile—The Pirate’s Bride—and flip it open. The cover art is as garish as the first, but the opening scene grabs me: a storm at sea, the heroine standing at the bow of the ship, her hair whipping in the wind as she faces down the hero, a scarred and dangerous captain.

She’s not swooning this time. She’s furious. Defiant. Her dialogue crackles with wit and fire, and I find myself laughing as she backs the hero into a verbal corner.

I make it halfway through the book before I realize I’m enjoying it.

Not just for the research, though that’s the excuse I’ll cling to if anyone asks. There’s something refreshing about the straightforward intensity of it all. The characters want each other, and they don’t waste time pretending otherwise.

It’s not subtle. It’s not nuanced. But it’s honest.

I set the book down, leaning back in my chair. The alcovefeels a little less claustrophobic now, the shadows a little less oppressive. Ashlan stirs, his soft purring filling the silence.

For the first time in what feels like centuries, I don’t feel completely alone.

Page will be back eventually. I can already feel the edges of her presence brushing against mine, a faint echo of her thoughts reaching through the distance. She’s restless, her mind buzzing with questions, her curiosity as sharp as ever. Maybe not tonight…but she’s thinking about me.

I’ll have to be careful when she returns. I’ll have to keep my control, ensure she doesn’t rush things. Because Ihaveto be sure she actually wants me.

But for now, I pick up another book.

For research. Of course.

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