The restricted wing of the Blackthorne Archives was not meant to be welcoming.
Sirene liked it anyway.
The air changed the moment she passed through the iron gate -cooler, heavier, tinged with the scent of old paper and something mineral beneath it, like stone after rain. The lights were fewer here, spaced deliberately far apart, leaving long stretches of shadow between each pool of amber glow. Sound softened. Even her footsteps seemed to hesitate, as though the floor itself were weighing whether she belonged.
Sirene had learned to read rooms before she learned to trust people.She adjusted the strap of her bag against her shoulder and walked on.
Most students avoided this section unless they had explicit permission. The plaques on the walls made that clear enough bronze warnings etched with dates, benefactors' names, and a long list of rules that read less like guidance and more like quiet threats. Sirene had read them once, years ago, when she first learned how to be careful in places that carried power.
Now, she didn't look at them at all.
She stopped at the third aisle from the back, where the shelves narrowed and the ceiling dipped lower, the architecture older, less forgiving. This was where the personal collections were kept. Donor archives. Family records. Correspondence that had never been meant for public eyes, sealed behind institutional approval and money.
She reached into her bag and withdrew a thin folder—cream cardstock, the edges softened by use. Her name was printed neatly at the top, beneath the crest of Blackthorne University and the signature of a man who owed her family a favor he would never acknowledge aloud.
Sirene slid the folder into the tray at the desk and waited.
The archivist on duty barely glanced up. He scanned the document, nodded once, and wordlessly unlocked the drawer beneath the desk. The key made a sound too loud in the quiet space. Sirene felt it in her chest.
"Second aisle, north side," the man murmured. "You have two hours."
"Thank you," she said.
Her voice sounded steadier than she felt.
She took the box he handed her-dark wood, heavier than it looked and carried it down the aisle, setting it carefully on the long table beneath the lamp. The light cast sharp shadows over the surface, turning the grain of the wood into something almost alive.
She removed the lid.
Inside were letters. Dozens of them. Tied in faded ribbon, the color once blue, now closer to ash. The handwriting was precise, slanted slightly to the right, the ink brown with age. Names appeared and disappeared as she scanned them families she knew, families she had been raised to recognize without ever being taught why.
Power, here, was not loud. It never had been.
Sirene sat, rolled up the sleeves of her coat, and began to read.
Time moved differently in the restricted wing. Minutes stretched. The outside world dulled, reduced to memory. She took notes carefully, her pen moving in small, deliberate strokes, copying phrases that mattered, marking connections others might miss. Patterns emerged the way they always did quietly, insistently.
She was halfway through a letter dated nearly forty years earlier when she felt it—the unmistakable pressure of someone who did not enter rooms accidentally.
Sirene did not look up at once. She had learned, early on, that reacting too quickly gave things away. Instead, she finished the sentence she was copying, placed the pen neatly along the margin of her notebook, and only then lifted her gaze.
Lucien Ashcroft stood at the end of the aisle.
He did not look surprised to see her.
He never did.
He leaned one shoulder against the shelf, posture relaxed in a way that suggested he belonged here more than the books themselves. His coat was dark, tailored, the fabric catching the low light without reflecting it. One hand rested in his pocket. The other held a single sheet of paper, folded once, as though it were an afterthought.
"Sirene," he said, softly.
Her name sounded different when he said it. Less like a greeting. More like a conclusion.
"Lucien," she replied. "I didn't realize this section was open for casual visits."
His mouth curved, barely. "It isn't."
She held his gaze. His eyes were dark ,not black, but close enough in this light. There was something unreadable in them, something that always made her feel as though she were standing at the edge of a question he already knew the answer to.
"Then you must have special permission," she said.
"I do."
"From whom?"
He pushed himself away from the shelf and walked toward her, his steps unhurried, measured. He stopped across the table, close enough that the space between them felt intentional.
"My family," he said. "Funds this wing."
Of course they did.
Sirene's fingers tightened slightly against the edge of the table. "That explains the access," she said. "Not the timing."
Lucien glanced down at the open box, at the letters spread carefully across the table, the ribbon set aside with almost reverent care. His gaze lingered on her notes.
"You've been studying power structures," he said. "Historical consolidation. Inheritance patterns. Quiet alliances."
Her pulse ticked once, sharp and fast.
"I wasn't aware my research interests were public knowledge."
"They aren't."
"Then how-"
"I pay attention," he said, simply.
The words should have felt invasive. Instead, they landed with the calm inevitability of truth.
Sirene closed the box, slowly, deliberately, placing the lid back on top as if sealing something away. "If you're here to question my presence," she said, "I have authorization."
"I know."
"Then why are you here?"
Lucien tilted his head slightly, studying her the way one might study a piece of art whose value lay not in beauty, but in history.
"Because I was curious," he said. "You come to places like this often."
It was not a question.
She rose from her chair. Standing, she was nearly his height, though he still seemed to occupy more space than necessary, his presence bending the air around him.
"Curiosity can be dangerous," she said.
"Yes," he agreed. "That's usually why I indulge it."
Silence settled between them, thick and unspoken. The lamp hummed softly above the table. Somewhere far off, a door closed.
"You could be anywhere right now," Sirene said. "There are easier places to find me."
"I don't like easy," Lucien replied. "And I wasn't looking for you."
Her eyebrow lifted, skeptical.
"I was looking for this," he said, unfolding the paper in his hand and sliding it across the table toward her.
She hesitated, then picked it up.
It was a ledger entry. Photocopied. Names, dates, figures. One name appeared twice, circled in pencil.
Her mother's.
Sirene looked up sharply. "Where did you get this?"
"From the same place you did," he said. "Just earlier."
Her stomach tightened. "You went through the Valemont collection."
"Yes."
"That section is sealed."
Lucien's expression did not change. "So is this one."
The implication hung between them.
"You shouldn't be digging into my family's affairs," she said quietly.
"And you shouldn't be digging into mine," he replied, just as quietly.
They stared at each other across the table, the unspoken understanding settling into something heavier than accusation. This was not a threat. It was recognition.
"Why show me this?" she asked.
"Because you were going to find it anyway," Lucien said. "And because I wanted to see what you'd do when you did."
Sirene folded the paper carefully, returning it to him. "You already know," she said.
"Do I?"
"You wouldn't be here otherwise."
For a moment just one something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Something closer to interest sharpened into focus.
"You don't study power because you want it," he said. "You study it because you were raised inside it and taught never to trust it."
Her breath caught, barely.
"You think you understand me," she said.
"I understand patterns," Lucien replied. "People repeat them."
"And what pattern do you think I fit into?"
He stepped closer, close enough now that she could see the faint scar near his jaw, the subtle shadow beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep ever seemed to erase.
"I haven't decided yet," he said. "That's what makes you… inconvenient."
Sirene felt the word settle somewhere low and sharp inside her.
"Inconvenient how?"
"For my expectations."
The honesty of it was more unsettling than any flirtation would have been.
She gathered her things, sliding her notebook into her bag, lifting the box with practiced care. "Then perhaps you should avoid me," she said.
Lucien moved aside, giving her space to pass.
"I don't avoid things that challenge me," he said. "I observe them."
Sirene paused at the end of the table. She turned, meeting his gaze one last time.
"Observation isn't neutral," she said. "It's a form of possession."
Lucien smiled then slow, restrained, almost thoughtful.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
She left the restricted wing moments later, the iron gate closing softly behind her. The air beyond it felt thinner, louder, less certain.
She did not look back.
Lucien remained where he was long after she was gone.
He returned the ledger to its place, retied the ribbon, and slid the box back onto the shelf. Before leaving, he reached for the sign-in book at the end of the aisle.
He wrote his name with deliberate care.
And beneath it already there, written earlier that evening—was hers.
He traced the ink with his eyes, a faint, unreadable expression settling into his features.
Lucien Ashcroft did not follow her.
He never chased what was already moving toward him.