Page 42 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter forty-two

The Cost

Heart pounding, Fern retreated quickly behind the bookshelf, peering around the dark wood. Léo Lautric, in a sweater of deep red wool, stooped slightly over the desk and was rifling through the books and notes left there by Srivastav.

And as Fern watched him, his long fingers turning pages that were not his, his eyes, sunken into beds of shadows, quick and clever still as they read through the general’s work, her heart sank.

She should have known better than to ever trust him.

Her old suspicions flared back into life, more burning and urgent than ever. Josefa’s stolen research, Lautric walking around the corridors at night. The break-in of Sarlet’s office. Vittoria’s disappearance and the books Lautric had borrowed from her as part of some mysterious bargain.

And now, Srivastav—whom she had not seen all day.

Every soft emotion she might ever have felt towards Lautric calcified into sharp, jutting shards. Her anger was different now, not the cold distrust of before, but something personal, something with the same bitter taste as betrayal.

She had always suspected him of being manipulative, had witnessed Baudet accusing him of it, and yet she’d still fallen for his tricks. But true stupidity was never learning from one’s mistakes, and Fern, though far from infallible, was still far from stupid.

She rounded the corner, fists clenched.

“What are you doing?”

Lautric looked up slowly. The serenity with which he lay down the sheaf of notes he had been flipping through made Fern’s stomach twist with indignant anger. He seemed neither shocked to see her nor ashamed of being caught in the act of cheating. He greeted her with the same soft murmur with which he’d invited her to his bedroom mere evenings ago.

“Good evening, Fern.”

The air was thick with the scent of aged paper and leather, an aroma that usually comforted Fern but now felt suffocating. The silence was almost oppressive; Lautric’s gentle greeting had barely broken it.

“This is Ravi Srivastav’s work,” Fern said.

Lautric nodded. “I’m only looking.”

His composure while being confronted made Fern’s irritation blaze into fury.

“This is his work. You have no business looking at it.”

Lautric stood to his full height but made no attempt to step away. He watched her silently, as though deep in thought. Finally, he said, “I’m not planning to steal his work, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Fern’s restraint snapped .

“I’ll tell you exactly what I’m thinking,” she said, the pyre of her anger sending words pouring out of her mouth like black smoke. “That nepotism only got you as far as Carthane’s doors. And now that you’re here, surrounded by people who have actually earned their way here, you’re left with no option but to do what your family does best: cheat and lie and steal.”

Lautric moved so fast that Fern barely had the time to take a step back before he was in front of her. Her back hit the bookshelf behind her at the same time as Lautric lay both hands down around Fern, trapping her between him and the books.

The exhaustion in his eyes had given way to something dark and restless, almost haunted. He spoke in a breath, his voice raw with emotion—not fury, but something else, something deep and gutting.

“You cannot begin to imagine the cost I have paid for being here, the things I’ve had to do to find my way to this place.”

Fern’s eyes were wide. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a wild beast throwing itself against the bars of its cage. The emotion in Lautric’s voice made the truth of his words undeniable. For a moment, Fern was lost for words, not afraid, but shaken.

“I know exactly what your house is capable of,” she said.

“But you know nothing about what I’m capable of.”

Lautric had never lied to her, even when he’d brazenly withheld the truth from her. If she had fallen for his clever manipulation, it was because she had wanted to. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his secrets, his deception, just as he hadn’t even attempted to appear guilty or ashamed when she caught him spying on Srivastav’s work.

She couldn’t bear to look into his eyes; she dropped her gaze. It fell inadvertently on his mouth: the shiny pink scar that crossed the petal lips. Below it, she noticed something else: more scars, older scars, like threads of pale silk, crisscrossing his chin, his neck.

She thought of the hunger with which he’d kissed her mouth and neck, and she shuddered.

“I should never have trusted you,” she said, almost to herself.

He let out a soft laugh, mocking, almost incredulous. “You never have. Not for one moment, nor if your very life depended on it.”

He pulled away abruptly, and Fern almost slumped back against the books behind her. His proximity had cast against her the heat from his body, the same heat which had enveloped her when he’d embraced her as she cried. Now that he stood away, she was suddenly cold, as though she had stepped out of sunlight and into a pit of shadows.

Lautric regarded her for a moment, nothing left in his expression now but a weary melancholy.

“You need not concern yourself with safeguarding Srivastav’s work, Fern. It should be the very least of your worries.”

And with those words, he turned around and left, disappearing into the darkness of Carthane.