Page 77 of Take Me Under

“Is the pipe hot?” he asked.

“It’s warm, but not too hot to touch. I have gloves, but they’re generally not recommended for glassblowing. They can hinder the dexterity needed to handle the pipe and shape the glass, potentially increasing the risk of burns.”

Wrapping his arms around me, I guided his hands around the end of the pipe, constantly shifting the orb. After a few moments, I let go, allowing him to repeat the movements I’d just shown him. His hold was steady, but the weight seemed to surprise him, making him adjust his grip.

“Keep it turning,” I reminded him, reaching out to guide him over the marver. His muscles tensed beneath my touch, and for a brief second, the air between us shifted, thickening with something far hotter than the furnace.

His gaze flicked to mine, and I knew that if I leaned in just a fraction—if I so much as breathed the wrong way—he’d close the distance between our lips that were already too close.

Not wanting to risk an accident, I ducked out from between his arms and stepped back.

“Not bad.” My voice was steady—barely. I turned toward the end of the blowpipe and leaned against the counter, needing something solid to hang on to.

I watched as Anton rolled the glass a few more times before setting the pipe down. “I’m not sure how you’ll make that blob into a swan. I can’t even begin to envision it.”

Smiling, I picked up the pipe and returned it to the furnace.The heat wrapped around me like a second skin as I gathered more glass, the glowing mass dripping like honey before I moved to shape it against the marver once again.

“This is where the magic happens,” I murmured, more to myself than to Anton.

I felt his gaze on me, watching as I worked, but I didn’t look at him. Instead, I turned my focus inward, letting my hands move with practiced precision, allowing instinct to take over. I had done this hundreds of times before—gather, shape, blow, refine—but each piece was different. Each one had its own life and temperament. Glass was unpredictable, and if you didn’t respect it, it would betray you.

I shaped the glowing mass with a block of soaked wood, steam hissing as the heat met moisture. The smell of burning wood mixed with melted glass filled the air. It was a scent I had grown to love over the years. My arms ached from the constant movement and the weight of the pipe, but I welcomed the strain. It meant the piece was coming to life.

Anton moved closer. Smooth words and that sexy smile had been replaced by an intense stare as he continued to watch me work.

I dipped the pipe back into the furnace for a second gather, layering more molten glass over the base shape. I worked quickly, shaping the body of the swan, coaxing the form into existence with careful turns and calculated motions. The body elongated, smoothing under my hands as I rolled it on the marver, creating the graceful curve of the neck.

The wings were next—the tricky part that could ruin everything.

I switched to my jacks, the steel blades sliding against the glass with practiced ease, carving feathered details into the soft heat before it could cool too much. My brow furrowed in concentration, making every movement precise. Each adjustmentwas crucial. The glass fought me, resisting the shape I demanded of it, but I didn’t back down. I knew how far to push, how much heat to use, and how to make it yield without breaking.

Minutes stretched into what felt like forever, the world outside my workshop fading into nothing. It was just me, the glass, and the fire.

When I finally pulled the pipe away, the swan stood proud on the punty, wings stretched wide, frozen in the moment before flight. The translucent glass still glowed with residual heat, the delicate details catching the light, throwing shimmering reflections across the walls.

I let out a slow breath, my muscles aching from effort, my skin damp with sweat. What I’d created wasn’t the final product for the gallery, but rather a miniature replica. In the coming days, I’d study the creation to find areas for improvement for the final, larger swan that I’d eventually craft.

“Incredible,” Anton murmured, breaking me from my reverie.

I turned to him and found his eyes locked on me. There was something in his expression, something unreadable and potent.

I swallowed, setting my tools down as a different kind of heat surged through me.

“It’s not the final product. This was just the practice run,” I said, my voice lower than I intended. “It still needs to cool in the annealer overnight, then I’ll study the imperfections.”

He stepped toward me, never taking his eyes off mine. The usual sexual tension between us began to shift into something heavier and far more real.

I looked away and wiped my hands on a rag. The adrenaline that always came from creating still coursed through my veins, making me feel restless. Angling my head to look at Anton, I found him watching me, his onyx eyes sharp and thoughtful.

When he spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. “Watching you do this is easily one of my new favorite things. You should give up the rest.”

I frowned. “The rest of what?”

“Archaeology. You should give it up and do this instead.” He gestured to the glass swan, still glowing faintly with heat.

I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head. “Anton?—”

“I’m serious.” He took another step closer until our bodies were almost touching. Taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger, he spoke again in a low but firm voice. “I’ve seen you in the field covered in dirt, Serena. It was only briefly, but I witnessed enough to know it didn’t suit you. But this? I can see the passion in your eyes. Blowing glass is what you were meant to do.”

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