The morning sun was pale, filtering through the high windows in narrow rays of light, and yet Candice moved through it as though she belonged there. As though the library had been waiting for her to discover all its secrets, long before she arrived.
I watched from the doorway, hands folded behind my back, my mask firmly in place.
She walked slowly, her steps measured and almost reverent. Still, there was something quietly defiant in the way her fingers skimmed the spines of books that she had no right to touch, as if daring the room or me to object.
Bold, I thought. Curious and careless enough to be dangerous.
Yet worse still, I was drawn to it.
I did not like how easily my attention found her. How my eyes followed her movements without command, where she would stop, what she might read, whether she would turn and look at me again with that steady, unguarded gaze. I told myself it was caution. Observation alone.
The lie did not convince me.
"Candice," I said at last.
She paused, then turned.
She did not flinch. Most did. The mask unsettled them; it created distance, fear, obedience. She regarded it and me with calm appraisal.
"Yes, my lord?" she asked.
"You should not be here," I said, keeping my tone light. A warning wrapped in silk.
Her brow lifted slightly. "Then why does no one stop me?"
I stepped farther into the room. "Because I had hoped you would stop yourself."
She smiled faintly. "That was optimistic of you."
"You enjoy testing my boundaries."
"I enjoy discovering where they truly lie."
I stopped a few paces from her. "These books contain knowledge that has ruined lives."
"Yours?" she asked quietly.
The question surprised me. "Among others."
She glanced back at the shelves. "Then perhaps they should not be left so temptingly within reach."
"Perhaps," I agreed. "Or perhaps they are meant to test those who reach for them."
"And have I failed?"
I studied her, the tilt of her chin, the quiet steadiness in her eyes. "That remains to be seen."
"The curse," I said after a moment, "has made me careful."
"I can see that," she replied gently.
"It has also made me dangerous."
She did not step back. Instead, she said, "Danger does not frighten me as much as cruelty."
"And do I not strike you as cruel?"
"No," she said at once. "You strike me as restrained. Lonely."
The word hit with an unexpected force.
"You see too much," I said.
"Only what you allow," she countered. "You could have ordered me out."
"Yes."
"But you didn't."
"No."
Silence stretched between us, taut and alive. We began to walk, side by side through the aisles, too close for propriety, too far for touch. Every glance lingered. Every brush of air felt deliberate.
"This is unwise," I said quietly.
She looked at me. "Is that a warning or an invitation?"
I exhaled slowly. "Come with me."
She hesitated just long enough, then nodded. "Very well."
The stairs were narrow, seldom used. The air grew warmer with each step.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"My chambers."
She stopped at the threshold when I opened the door.
"This is your private space," she said.
"Yes."
"If I cross that line," she continued, meeting my gaze, "there will be no pretending afterwards."
"I would not insult you with pretence."
She studied me a moment longer, then stepped inside.
I closed the door.
The room was quiet, lit by firelight and morning sun. She turned slowly, taking it in.
"This is where you hide," she said softly.
"No," I replied. "This is where I endure."
She reached for my mask, stopping just short of touching it. "May I?"
My voice came out rougher than intended. "Not yet."
She nodded, accepting the boundary, and placed her hand instead over my chest.
"I can feel your heart," she murmured.
"I am aware."
"It's racing."
"So is yours."
She laughed softly. "You noticed."
"I notice more than I should."
"This is unwise," I said again.
"Yes," she agreed. "But I am tired of living cautiously."
"So am I."
That was the truth that broke me.
I kissed her.
She gasped, fingers gripping my coat as if grounding herself. The kiss was deep, slowly unrestrained, as though long being bound only by long habit and discipline fraying at once. When I finally pulled back, our foreheads rested together.
"You should turn back," I said.
"Do not make me," she whispered.
"Say it again." I pleaded with her.
"I will not leave you alone."
That was all the permission I needed and it far more than I deserved.
Later, when the world had narrowed to warmth and breath and quiet wonder, she lay against me, her head on my shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns against my skin.
"You're thinking too loudly," she murmured.
"I am afraid," I admitted.
"Of me?"
"Of what I would do to keep you."
She tilted her head to look at me. "Then we are equally lost."
Sunlight climbed higher against the walls.
I stared at the ceiling, heart heavy with something far more dangerous than fear.
Hope.
Because even as she slept, trusting and unguarded, I knew the truth I had not spoken.
That loving her might be the most perilous magic of all.
And that I was no longer certain if I wished to resist it or embrace it.