Page 73 of The Alien in the Archive

Then each and every book drops with a sudden, startling thud.

Thorne pulls back slightly, his breath brushing over mylips as his onyx eyes flicker between surprise and satisfaction. I’m still dazed, trembling beneath him, my body and mind reeling from what we’ve just done–what he’s just done to me.

“Was that…you?” I whisper, glancing at the books scattered around us like fallen leaves.

Thorne stands up, looking around. His alabaster hair is disheveled, and his shirt hangs loosely, exposing his collarbone. He looks like some wild, ancient god, glorious and profane.

“I haven’t been capable of telekinesis in well over a hundred years,” he says. “That was you, Page.”

And that makesmefeel like a god, too.

Beloved.

As the novelty of the floating books wears off, I suddenly remember that Thorne is still fully dressed and I’m stripped bare and spread out. I sit up, my head swimming at the change in position, but Thorne reaches for me, stepping between my legs and taking my hands in his. He looks me over, eyes still so,sohungry.

“So now you’re going to…” I start, but he stops me.

“Patience,” he’s using my full name more than a little intentionally, “I’m not going to fuck you tonight.”

“Goddamn it, Thorne…” I groan.

“But,” he cuts me off, “this is the last time.”

I frown. “And what exactly does that mean?”

He slides his hands down my sides, to my hips, pulls me against him to feel his hardness, like he did before—days or weeks ago…I can’t even remember. I suck in a breath at the press of him against my sensitive clit.

“This is the last time you’ll leave this room without being well and thoroughly fucked,” he murmurs. One hand comes up to the breast he freed from my bra, playing with mynipple, and I moan softly. “I won’t be able to stop myself again, Page.”

I look into his eyes. “Good. I don’t want you to.”

For a moment, he just stares at me, his jaw tight. Then he leans down, his lips brushing against my ear.

“You have no idea what you’ve started, beloved.”

27

THORNE

The scratching of my pen against the aged paper is the only sound in the alcove. Ashlan is curled in the corner, his antennae glowing a light, cool blue, as I continue to piece together the fractured memories of my past.

The Borean Chronicle feels less like a historical record and more like an exercise in self-flagellation. Every word, every line of script drags up ghosts I’d much rather leave buried.

But Page asked for this, and against all better judgment, I find myself wanting to give her what she wants.

My hand hesitates over the next line. I blame the lingering haze from last night—the warmth of her skin, her gasps, the way her blood tasted, sweeter than I deserve. I tried very hard to convince myself I was against those base longings, but now it’s clear.

I’m hopelessly tangled in her, mind and body.

Gods…the way she makes me feel alive again. Like the centuries of dust and decay have been swept away, leaving something raw and unrecognizable beneath.

Something that, apparently, writes bad love poetry in the margins of its history books.

Perhaps the human love books are having an effect on me.

I glance down at the notebook, scowling at the stray sentence I’ve scrawled in the corner:Hopelessly tangled in her.

I strike it out. Absolutely not.

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