Page 7

Jules

The Eyrie—The Library

My thoughts are surprisingly clear.

I mean, yeah, I’ve been kidnapped.

Stolen.

Taken across some magical veil by a man with glowing eyes and a voice that could melt the spine out of a nun.

Captured, sure.

But weirdly?

Not exactly a hardship.

Because Alaric is tall, dark, and apocalyptically sexy in a way that should be illegal.

And when he looks at me like I’m something rare, something his , my whole body gets confused about what’s happening.

Still, I should be panicking. Screaming. Plotting escape.

But here I am, calmly wandering through a literal fantasy library , running my fingers along books older than the United States, casually inhaling the scent of magic and dust like I belong here.

I don’t belong here.

Do I?

I should want to go home.

But home to what?

My shitty apartment with the dripping faucet and the neighbor who blasts disco music at 3 a.m.?

To bartending for smug finance bros who tip like I’m a vending machine with boobs?

To overdue bills, aching loneliness, and a life that feels more like surviving than living?

Yeah. Hard pass.

So okay, go ahead.

Call me delusional.

Say I have Stockholm Syndrome.

That I’m the dumb girl in every B-horror flick who trips while running and gets snatched by the monster.

Whatever.

Because for the first time in forever , I feel alive.

Like I’ve stepped into a story I didn’t even know I’d been aching for.

I’m not just watching life happen to someone else through a screen.

I’m in it.

Living it.

Breathing it.

Even if it feels unreal.

Even if this place is quiet. Too quiet.

Even if there’s probably a talking book somewhere that’s going to bite me.

And even if Alaric looks like the kind of dangerous, carved from granite warrior who could absolutely savage my body without breaking a sweat.

Yes, please.

Don’t judge. It’s been a while.

And Alaric? He looks like he knows how to find every single one of my secret places and then, make me beg for more.

Okay, don’t look at me like that.

Blame the alien romance novels. Seriously, You read enough of these fantastic taken-by-the-alpha-overlord-in-space stories and your standards shift.

But the thing that really has me spiraling isn’t what he could do to my body.

It’s what he’s already doing to my heart.

Because under the smirking, commanding, vaguely insufferable exterior, there’s something else.

A grief.

A weight.

A need .

Like the only thing more dangerous than being near him is being gone from him.

That scares me more than his magic ever could.

Because bodies heal.

But hearts? Hearts get ruined.

And if I’m not careful, mine’s going to shatter in the hands of a Demon who never meant to hold it.

“Wow,” I whisper as I find what I’ve undoubtedly been searching for in this incredible museum of a library.

There’s row upon row of shelves behind iron and glass doors.

“The restricted section ,” I murmur and grin to myself.

Okay, this part of the library gives silence new meaning.

I bite my lip, inching forward as I try to make out the shapes of the symbols or runes on some of the covers. These books are old. Like the ancient kinda old .

Mystical.

And the quiet that seems to shroud this area?

It’s the kind of quiet that only exists in churches or the woods just before something happens in a horror movie.

I squint and try to make out some of the words, but to do that I need to step closer.

Something pulses in the air.

“ Shifting Realms ,” I whisper, proud of myself for making that one out.

“ The Ritual of the Zareth: Forging Soul Bonds in Nightfall ,” I pause, wondering what that even means.

Then, I move on to the next title.

This enormous book is on a shelf by itself. There’s a glow inside, like the book emanates light, and I have to stand on my tippy toes to even try to make out the words.

The cover seems to be made of pure silver and gold. Etched into the metal is a crown, like the kind you’d see in some fantasy flick directed by Peter Jackson.

“ The R-Rise of the,” I whisper, and try to get higher.

I look around, see a small box, and I grab it, placing it in front of the shelf.

I step up and try again, my heart in my throat as I finally see the full title.

“ The Rise of the Prime of Nightfall .”

I touch my hand to the glass, I just can’t seem to help it, and the book?

I swear to God, it’s like the book exhales .

“Shit,” I mumble, stepping back and literally falling on my ass.

I peek around, but no one sees me. So, I dust myself off and leave that aisle.

Restricted sections aren’t for me.

I wander deeper into the stacks.

The air changes the farther I go— thicker, quieter, like even the books are holding their breath.

I trail my fingers over the rows of leather-bound volumes, some of them glowing faintly, others humming beneath my touch like they know I’m here.

And I mean, come on.

This is every book girl’s dream, right?

That Beauty and the Beast fantasy, where the brooding, misunderstood monster gifts you a library so big you could live in it and never finish reading.

Only, let’s be real.

I’m no Beauty. Not with my curves and my sarcasm and my habit of trusting absolutely no one.

And Alaric? He might be a Demon Lord, or some dark god of kidnapping chunky humans, but he isn’t my Beast.

He’s something else entirely.

Something more dangerous.

Because the Beast had rules. Boundaries.

Alaric has intentions—ones I can’t read, and ones I’m starting to feel in places I probably shouldn’t.

Still, I can't stop the part of me that’s secretly, silently thrilled.

Because, this place?

This world?

The impossible, beautiful, terrifying Nightfall?

It feels more like home than anything ever has.