“Semantics,” he shrugged as I let my bag slide off my shoulder and onto the desk I usually sat at. It was a small wooden desk near a larger window that overlooked the now beautiful, blooming trees that had erupted in various blush pinks and vibrant yellows across the campus quad.
I absolutely loved this time of year. With the sun shining alittle brighter, I could almost feel my insides thawing out. It was as if my seasonal depression had melted away with the smell of BBQs burning on a Sunday afternoon and the sounds of beer cans being opened as soon as noon rolled around.
Spring rolling around had breathed life into my lungs in a way I never had before. There was a time when we weren’t entirely sure if Maura was going to see spring again. We weren’t sure if she’d see all the flowers in her garden bloom–the smile on her face radiant enough to rival the plants themselves. The rhododendrons and daffodils had bloomed in the last few weeks, and I couldn’t wait to hear Maura gush about how wonderful her garden looked, and more importantly, what a good job Grandpa and I had done to maintain it.
I was pulled from my rolling thoughts as Thallor leaned in close and whispered in my ear. “It’s pretty quiet on this side of the library. I do wonder why you brought me here, Sterling. Looking to commit a few sins?”
“I didn’t bring you here; you followed me,” I scoffed, but struggled to stop the grin stretching across my face the moment I caught his smirk at the corner of my eye. “And anyway, it sounds likeyouwant that to be the reason.”
Thallor moved before I could process what was happening, placing one arm on the back of my chair and leaning in closer. His warm breath lingered at the surface of my skin, which made my breath disappear entirely. The pad of his thumb stroked my cheek, and I felt my heart rate spike as the muscle in my chest fought valiantly to break free. “I categorically want that to be the reason.” His eyes were so dark it was hard to imagine they had ever been any color other than black.
Images of Thallor pushing me up against a bookshelf rattled around in my brain, until an uncontrollable whimper escaped me and a deep heat crept up the sides of my cheeks. The subtle smirk at the corner of his mouth faltered, replacedby something more primal as though he could see the thoughts unfurling behind my eyes.
“Sterling,” he rasped, his voice a lot breathier and lower than it had been before. His lips parted, and for a moment, all I wanted to do was move closer. The distance between us almost felt like it was too much to bear. All I could hear was the hammering of my heart in my ears and the sweet smell of burning wood, as he took in each and every salacious thought I’d ever had of him since we’d met.
I didn’t say anything, but I blushed harder. The heat climbed up from my abdomen, up my spine, and across my neck.
“You are so beautiful when you are flustered.” He grinned down at me but didn’t close the gap between us any further. Leaving me momentarily disappointed.
“Don’t…don’t say things like that,” I groaned, stumbling over my words. They felt like alphabet soup in my mouth–garbled and unclear–like when there’s too much liquid and not enough letter-shaped noodles to aptly form what I so desperately wanted to say.
“Is the idea of me wanting you so difficult for you to rationalise?”
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t want to but because I was afraid of what I’d say if I did.
He dropped his hand from where it was positioned behind me and shrugged. “I said I would wait for you to figure it out.” He slumped into the chair and reached behind him, pulling out a book titled “The Metaphysics of Sneezing.”
A little while later, once I’d made a dent in my essay, I looked up at Thallor, who was thumbing the pages of the same book. I allowed myself to take in the frame of his face. The light shining through the window illuminated the gold undertone of his usually pale complexion. The way it complemented thecolour of his fiery hair. I watched as he absent-mindedly ruffled it before it fell back in place. It looked messy but in that perfect, purposeful way–the kind that came from a good night’s sleep or a night ofno sleep. His bright red eyes continued to graze the pages in front of him. “I can see you staring,” he said quietly, not bothering to look up at me.
“I wasn’t staring.”I was. “I’m just surprised at how uncharacteristically quiet you’ve been.”
“I was trying not to distract you,” he said, closing the book and looking up at me. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I may just change my mind. But the things I want to do to you? They are not things for a place like this.”
Our little corner of the library heated exponentially, the comfortable spring temperature increasing to something almost unbearable. A heat that had me melting and pooling at my core. Thallor shifted, placing both hands behind his head and closing his eyes, his thigh brushing against mine as he moved. For the next hour, I desperately tried to focus on the work in front of me, but the touch of his thigh and the weight of his presence scratched at the corners of my mind.
You’re still distracting me. You’re always distracting me.
A little while later,I made my way up to the sixth floor, leaving Thallor to watch something on my laptop. In the stolen glances and the waves of red that barrelled against my cheeks, pulled in by the tide of Thallor’s constant declarations, my mind felt like a sea of constant confusion. Each and every thought demanded my concentration and focus until I felt like I was drowning–not in anything bad–but drowning, nonetheless.
I sighed deeply as I stalked down the narrow aisle at the back of the library, looking for something interesting to write my thesis and final-year presentation on. I ran my hand along the spines of dusty books, hoping that something would jump out at me via osmosis because my ability to choose a topic was continuing to evade me.
I pulled tattered books and large volumes from shelves, dumping them on the table in the dimly lit area. Unlike the floor below, the sixth floor rarely got any natural light as it extended into the eaves of the old stone building. The lights flickered overhead, doing little to illuminate the darkened space. It was the perfect setting for a nineties supernatural horror film or an afternoon of sexual escapades.
I started rifling through the stack of books I’d collected, praying that inspiration would finally grace me with its presence. The mountain of old books in front of me felt like a tangible manifestation of my own frustration. I flipped through the books–each one pulling me further away from a successful degree. I read through a book with written excerpts and notes in handwriting I could barely read–as well as pages and pages of roughly drawn sketches–either made by a chicken with ink on its feet or someone who could not keep up with the flood of their own thoughts.
Another book was covered in splotches of brown liquid that stained the already yellowing pages, as though someone had set down a cup of coffee in haste only to accidentally knock it over. “Well, at least I hope it’s coffee…” I muttered under my breath, my voice a soft laugh that barely escaped the quietness of the aisle.
My attention was drawn to another book with gilded lettering so faded I could barely make out the title. I flipped open the pages, gently guiding my thumb over the edge to find the title page. I shuddered when I saw Caldwell’s name inside.Knowing that he’d already borrowed this book from the library at some point was enough to put me off even reading it until I turned a few pages, and one paragraph in particular caught my attention.
Aamon.
The name was etched into the page in darker ink than the words around it. Whether that was a misprint–an unavoidable book printing curse–or my eyes playing tricks on me in the low lighting, I wasn’t sure.Aamon. Prince of Hell.The words painted a picture of him that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. He was a being born out of chaos and cruelty. He ruled hell with an unparalleled malevolence and relished in the tormenting of damned souls.
I turned the page slowly, letting my fingers linger against the rough paper as the words burned into my mind.He relished in the burning of cities and the destruction of lives.
Prince of Hell, indeed.I thought to myself before pondering whether Aamon was just a concept–an amalgamation of stories from different cultures or religions–or if he, like Thallor, was real. For the sake of my own sanity, I hoped it was the former. Because the way the book described him, it was almost as though he didn’t want to cause pain and destruction butneededto. As if driven by some boundless lust for chaos–one that could not be sated by anything or anyone.
With every sentence I read, I felt the tightness in my chest constrict until I could barely breathe. I could feel it. His fury. His anger. His malevolence almost rose up off the page as though his wrath had been liquified and used to ink the words themselves.
