Page 13 of The Alien in the Archive (Galactic Librarians #1)

13

THORNE

T he quiet scratch of Page’s pen fills the reading nook as I pace behind her like a taskmaster.

Before, it might have irritated me. I used to sit in silence for hours at a time and enjoy it—day after day, year after year.

But now…it’s soothing.

What’s less soothing is her milling thoughts, and the fact that she still isn’t doing a thing to keep me out of her dreams.

She’s sitting at the low circular table in our secret reading nook, bent over a page of scrawled Borean symbols. Her brows knit together in concentration, her tongue peeking out slightly at the corner of her mouth.

It’s maddeningly endearing.

“Your stroke’s too heavy,” I say, peering over her shoulder.

“I thought you said this language was impossible to learn,” she replies without looking up.

“It is.”

“Then why does it matter if I’m writing it wrong?”

I can’t help the faint smirk tugging at my lips. “Because there’s no point in learning something impossible if you’re going to do it poorly.”

She stops mid-stroke and looks up at me, silver-grey eyes narrowing. “You’re really bad at motivational speeches, you know that?”

“Motivation is overrated.” I straighten, walking around the table to stand beside her. “Precision, however, is essential. Move.”

She scoots over, making just enough room for me to sit beside her. She’s built herself a nest of cushions, Ashlan purring in her lap, antennae glowing a faint pink. “You don’t have to hover,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I can figure it out.”

“And yet here you are, mangling the script of an ancient and dangerous language,” I reply, placing my hand around hers, shifting our grip on the pen.

Her lips twitch like she’s suppressing a grin, but she lets me guide her hand as I shape the first letter of the next word. Her fingers are smaller than mine, warm against my touch, and for a moment, I’m acutely aware of how close we are. Too close.

“There,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended. “Try it again.”

She mimics the motion, her movements smoother now, and glances at me for approval. I nod, trying to ignore the strange twist of pride in my chest.

“So, what does it mean?” she asks, pointing to the line she just finished.

“It’s a fragment of a treaty between Boreans and humans. An agreement to trade energy cores during the early days of interstellar expansion.”

Her brows lift. “So Borean was basically the galaxy’s most intimidating contract language?”

I chuckle softly. “In a sense. It’s precise, unyielding, and easy to twist how you will it. The perfect language for diplomacy.”

“Or manipulation.”

I grimace. “For my people, it was often the same thing.”

“And yet,” she says, her tone teasing, “you’re teaching it to me. A mere mortal with clumsy handwriting.”

I don’t reply immediately, my gaze lingering on the curve of her cheek as she looks back down at the page. Because I wanted to, I think but don’t say. Because I wanted to share something with you no one else has.

Instead, I lean back, reluctantly abandoning the heat of her body. “You’re improving,” I admit grudgingly.

She beams, and I scowl at how much I like the sight of her smile.

“So,” she says after a moment, not looking up from her work. “Davina seemed really interested in the notes I shared with her.”

My jaw tightens. “Did she now?”

Page looks up, sensing the edge in my voice. “I thought you’d already know. You seem to know everything…and I did let you in, after all. I could feel you listening.”

I do know. I had felt the flicker of her decision as she walked to Davina’s office, seen the threads of her thoughts as she laid the pages before her supervisor. And hearing her say it…I feel an uncomfortable combination of frustration and pleasure. I like that she let me in, that she has a door in her mind that’s open only to me.

But I don’t like sharing this information with anyone but her.

Or…maybe I don’t like sharing her .

“She’s your supervisor,” I say flatly. “Of course you’d share something she has no context for, something that could potentially put us both at risk. That makes perfect sense.”

Her brow furrows at my tone. “Thorne, I wasn’t going to hoard the information forever. It’s not like this history belong to us—and I came here for a reason, not just to know things. What’s the point in having the truth if I don’t share it?”

“It’s not about that, Page,” I sigh. “It’s about understanding what you’re dealing with before you hand it over to someone who might not.”

I close my eyes in annoyance. When I look back at Page, her eyes narrow, and I see the flicker of defiance rising in her. “Davina’s not just someone , and you know that. She’s my advisor—and a great scholar who’s done amazing work. If anyone can help me make sense of this, it’s her.”

“Help you make sense of it?” I repeat, my voice colder now. “Is that what you want? For someone else to interpret my words? To strip them down into bite-sized pieces that fit neatly into the narrative you’re supposed to follow?”

She huffs out a frustrated breath. “What is your problem? You’ve been impossible since I got here tonight. If this isn’t about the notes, then what is it?”

My problem? My problem is that I liked having something with her; something just for us, untainted by the endless bureaucracy of the Grand Library or the prying eyes of the world outside. I wanted to teach her, to share pieces of myself she couldn’t find in a book or an archive.

And she handed it to Davina like it was raw archival material.

Because that’s all I’ll be to her eventually: a footnote.

“I thought you understood.” My voice is quieter now, but no less cold. “What I’m teaching you isn’t something to be cataloged or filed away. It’s dangerous knowledge, Page. And you telling your Skoll advisor could be a matter of life and death for me.”

Her lips part, but no words come out. I can feel her mind racing, trying to parse my meaning .

“You’re not just angry because I told her,” she says after a moment. Her voice is softer, searching. “You’re angry because it wasn’t just ours anymore.”

I wince despite myself.

She’s not wrong.

I don’t answer right away, and she leans in closer, her gaze holding mine. “Thorne, you don’t own me. You don’t own my work, or my choices. I appreciate what you’ve taught me, but this isn’t just your legacy—it’s mine too.”

She’s right, but the thought of her sharing what we’ve built with someone else, anyone else, still feels like a betrayal.

“Do you know what Davina will do with it?” I ask, my voice quieter now. “She’ll take your brilliance and stamp it with her approval. She’ll file it under her name, her project, and you’ll lose the chance to own it completely.”

“That’s not true,” Page counters, but there’s a flicker of doubt in her voice.

I cock my head to the side, narrowing my eyes at her. “You think she won’t? You’re na?ve if you believe that. She’ll dissect it, dilute it, and leave you with nothing but the scraps of what you discovered.”

“Why are you being like this?” She shakes her head, her jaw tight. “You don’t know that. And even if it happens, it doesn’t change the fact that I needed her perspective.”

“You needed someone to validate you?” I ask, my voice sharp. “What about me, Page? Wasn’t I enough?”

Her breath catches, and I see the flush rise in her cheeks. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Isn’t it?” I stand up to get further away from her, forcing myself to retreat before I say something worse. “I’m trying to protect you. To give you something no one else can. And you handed it away.”

She stares at me, her eyes wide, and I can feel the weight of my words sinking in .

“I don’t need your protection,” she replies finally, her voice quieter but no less firm. “I need your trust.”

The silence stretches between us, heavy and charged. I should apologize. I should explain. But instead, I avert my gaze, my fists clenching at my sides.

“Fine,” I say, my voice tight. “Do what you want. Just don’t expect me to clean up the mess when it falls apart.”

Her face hardens, and she turns back to the table, picking up the pen again. “Noted.”

I watch her for a moment longer, the urge to say something, anything, scraping at my ribs. But I don’t.

Instead, I look over her shoulder again.

“That’s better,” I murmur roughly. “You’re starting to get the hang of it.”

She glances up at me like she’s about to tear into me…then she softens.

“Thank you, Thorne,” she says.

I scoff. “No need.”