The Autumn Gala

Clara didn't leave. She couldn't.

Part of it was fear—where would she go? The man knew where she bought her coffee.

But part of it was a twisted, dark realization that bloomed in her chest like a nightshade. For her entire life, she had been a victim. She had been tossed aside, overlooked, hurt.

And here was a man—a beautiful, dangerous monster—who had looked at the world and said, *No one touches her.*

Two days later, the University Autumn Gala was held in the Great Library.

Adrian insisted they go. "Appearances, darling. We must be the happy academic couple."

Clara wore a velvet emerald dress. Adrian wore a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin. He held her hand as they walked into the towering gothic hall, filled with professors drinking champagne and donors eating canapés.

"Smile," Adrian whispered, kissing her temple. "You look devastating."

"Is that a compliment or a threat?" Clara muttered.

"With me? Always both."

They were mingling near the Rare Books section when the glass of the skylight shattered.

Ropes dropped from the ceiling. Four men in tactical gear descended, shattering the display cases.

Screams erupted. The donors scrambled.

"Romanos," Adrian hissed, his academic demeanor vanishing instantly. He shoved Clara behind a heavy oak pillar. "Marco must have missed his check-in."

"Your brother?"

"My former employers. They want me back, or they want me dead."

One of the gunmen landed ten feet away. He raised a rifle.

Adrian didn't have a gun. He had a champagne flute.

He threw the glass into the gunman’s face. As the man flinched, Adrian closed the distance. He moved with a speed that defied his tweed-jacket persona. He grabbed the rifle barrel, twisted it, and drove his palm into the man’s nose. Bone crunched.

"Run, Clara!" Adrian shouted, wrestling the rifle away. "The stacks! Go deep!"

Clara hiked up her dress and ran.

She sprinted into the labyrinth of bookshelves. The air smelled of old paper and terror. She heard gunshots behind her. The sound of Adrian fighting.

She turned a corner and skidded to a stop.

A gunman was blocking the aisle. He was huge, wearing a mask. He saw her and grinned.

"Mrs. Vance," he growled. "The Professor's pet."

Clara looked around. She was in the 800s. Literature.

She backed up. "Stay away."

"Or what? You'll read poetry at me?"

The man lunged.

Clara didn't scream. She remembered the "Grade Book." She remembered the entry on *Improvised Defense* Adrian had written in the margins of a lesson plan she found. *Environment is a weapon.*

She grabbed the metal end-cap of the massive, ten-foot-tall bookshelf.

It was heavy, laden with thousands of encyclopedias.

As the man stepped into the aisle, Clara didn't run away. She threw her entire body weight against the shelf.

It tipped.

The gunman looked up too late.

* CRASH.*

The bookshelf fell like a domino, burying the man under a ton of knowledge. He screamed once, then went silent.

Clara stood panting, dust swirling around her.

"Clara!"

Adrian appeared at the end of the aisle. He was limping. His tuxedo was torn, and blood was soaking his white shirt at the shoulder. He was holding a stolen rifle.

He saw the toppled bookshelf. He saw the boot sticking out from under *Encyclopedia Britannica*.

He looked at Clara.

"You dropped the canon on him," Adrian breathed, a look of pure, unadulterated worship on his face. "That is incredibly hot."

"He was going to hurt me," Clara said, her voice shaking.

"I know." Adrian stumbled toward her. He handed her a pistol he had tucked in his waistband. "Take this."

"I don't know how to use it."

"Point and click, darling. It's like a PowerPoint remote, but louder."

Another gunman rounded the corner.

Adrian was too slow. He was losing blood.

Clara raised the gun. She didn't think about foster care. She didn't think about the school board. She thought about the man who had stolen a first edition for her.

She fired.

She missed the man, but the bullet hit the chain of the heavy iron chandelier above him.

The chain snapped. The chandelier plummeted, crashing onto the gunman with a deafening symphony of breaking glass and twisted metal.

Silence fell over the library.

Adrian stared at the wreckage. Then he looked at Clara. He was pale, bleeding, and grinning like a lunatic.

"A-plus," he wheezed. "Definite A-plus."