Chapter 1: Locked In With Temptation
The smell of old paper and lemon wood polish filled the air of the rare books vault, a scent Marie had come to think of as the smell of quiet. It was her favorite place in the library. Here, surrounded by centuries bound in leather and vellum, the outside world—the packed lunches, the soccer schedules, the gentle, predictable weight of her husband’s arm across her at night—seemed to soften into a distant hum.
She was transcribing an inventory card for a particularly bawdy 18th-century French satire, her glasses slipping down her nose, when the vault door hissed and then shut with a definitive, heavy thud.
She looked up, expecting to see Jane from Restoration. Instead, it was Tariq.
He filled the doorway, a mountain of a man in a simple gray janitorial polo that did nothing to conceal the breadth of his shoulders. At six-foot-six, he had to duck slightly under the lintel. His smile was a flash of white in his bearded face.
“Sorry, Marie,” he said, his voice a warm, low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the enclosed space. “Didn’t see you in here. The auto-lock must have engaged.”
“It’s alright,” she said, a little too quickly. She adjusted her glasses. “The thermostat is acting up again. It’ll be twenty minutes before it recycles and unlocks.”
“Twenty minutes.” He didn’t sound annoyed. He stepped fully inside, letting the vault embrace him. It suddenly felt much smaller. “What are you working on?”
“Just some… cataloguing.” She instinctively shifted her body to shield the open folio of explicit engravings from his view. Her forearm brushed against the shelf behind her, and a tiny cloud of ancient dust motes danced in the single overhead lamp’s light.
He didn’t press. He just leaned back against a shelf of weathered law volumes, crossing his arms. The fabric of his shirt stretched tight. Marie focused very hard on the precise loop of her cursive ‘g’.
“Quiet today,” he observed.
“Always is, down here.”
“I like it,” he said. “Peaceful. A world apart.”
She nodded, feeling a bead of sweat trace a path down her spine. It was warmer than usual. The climate control was definitely faulty. Or maybe it was just the fact that Tariq El-Amin, with his easy confidence and that intriguing accent, was standing so close in a locked room. She’d heard the other pages giggling about him. She’d overheard whispered, scandalous speculation in the staff room about men from his part of the world. She always shushed them, a heat rising in her own cheeks that had nothing to do with propriety.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden, jarring sound of the main vault door shuddering. Not the soft click of the temperature lock, but a violent rattle, followed by a voice, slurred and angry.
“Hey! Anyone in there?”
Marie froze. Tariq’s posture shifted subtly, from relaxed to alert.
“We’re closed for restoration,” Marie called out, her voice trembling slightly.
“The hell you are!” The man pounded on the door. “I need a goddamn book! Open up!”
“Sir, you need to leave,” she said, more firmly now, pushing her chair back. She moved toward the interior window that looked out into the main archival corridor.
A face appeared at the glass, red-eyed and furious. “I said open the door, you stupid bitch!”
Marie recoiled as if slapped. Before she could even process the fear, Tariq was moving. He wasn’t running; his stride was long, purposeful, and terrifyingly calm. He unlocked the interior door—a manual bolt, separate from the climate seal—and stepped out into the corridor, pulling it closed behind him.
Marie pressed her hands against the cool glass, her heart hammering. She saw Tariq approach the man, who was a good foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter. Tariq didn’t shout. He spoke, his words inaudible through the thick glass, his body language an immovable wall. The angry man yelled, poking a finger at Tariq’s chest.
In one fluid motion, Tariq caught the man’s wrist, twisted it just enough to make him gasp, and marched him, stumbling and now sputtering protests, down the corridor and out of sight.
Marie stood there, her breath fogging the glass. The silence that returned was profound, ringing in her ears.
A few minutes later, the interior door opened again. Tariq walked back in, not even out of breath. He re-bolted the door.
“He won’t be back,” Tariq said, brushing his hands together lightly as if dusting off something unpleasant.
“Oh my god,” Marie breathed, her hand fluttering to her throat. “Tariq… thank you. I don’t… without you, I don’t know what he might have done.”
He looked at her, his dark eyes assessing. “You’re shaking.”
“Am I?” She looked down at her hands. They were. “It’s just the adrenaline, I think.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he said. He took a step closer. The musty air of the vault felt charged, thick. “He was a nasty piece of work.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said, looking up at him. He was so tall she had to tilt her head back.
A slow smile spread across his face. It wasn’t just friendly; it was knowing. “A drink,” he suggested, his tone casual. “After work. To calm the nerves.”
The invitation hung in the space between them. It was an open door, one she knew she shouldn’t step through. Images flashed: her husband, Mark, loading the dishwasher. Her two daughters, Lily and Chloe, laughing over a board game. The familiar, comfortable landscape of her life.
“I…” She swallowed. “I can’t. Tonight. I have to pick up my girls from piano. It’s my turn.”
The smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened. “Tomorrow, then.”
It wasn’t really a question. It was a rerouted plan. And part of her, the part that lived in the quiet fantasies between the lines of her life, wanted to say yes. That part was nodding.
“Tomorrow,” she heard herself say. “Yes, alright.”
The temperature lock gave a soft, metallic clunk. The air circulation whirred back to life. The door was now unlocked.
“Looks like you’re free,” Tariq said, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Yes,” she murmured. She gathered her notepad and pen, her movements clumsy. “I should… get back to the front desk.”
He stepped aside to let her pass. As she walked out of the vault, she felt the weight of his gaze on her back. She didn’t turn around.
At the end of the archival corridor, just before she rounded the corner into the public section of the library, she dared a glance back. He was still leaning in the vault doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light. He was watching her go.
Tariq let his eyes travel the length of her retreating figure, lingering on the sway of her hips under her sensible skirt. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He ran his tongue over his teeth.
“Soon,” he murmured to the empty, silent corridor. The word was low and crude, dripping with a vile certainty. “Soon, you prim little wife. I’m going to bend you over these very shelves and fuck you until you forget your own name.”