Free A Stranger Called Master by Olivia Laurel Page B

this attic, but the librarians had
no choice and just needed a placeholder for the books until they’re finished
reorganizing.
    After a few minutes of searching,
with no other sound but the hum of the air conditioner, I finally spot the “PR”
shelf and scan the spines for the correct call number. It’s too high for me to
reach, so I weave through the shelves once more, in search of a stool.
    The ding of the elevator startles me. I peer into the main hallway,
only to find the doors open to an empty elevator car. Weird.
    I turn back to my quest for a
stepping ladder when again, I hear a muffled step ever
so slightly out of sync with my own.
    Fuck this. This place gives me the
creeps and there’s no point in being a hero and staying. I break into a run for
the elevator. I don’t need the book that badly.
    “Come on, come on,” I whisper under
my breath, as if cheering it on will make the elevator climb faster. At this
rate, I could’ve made it to the first floor by now if I’d just taken the
stairs. I give up on the elevator and run for the staircase on the other side
of the library.
    This time, there’s no mistake.
    Rapid footfalls thunder after me,
no longer caring that I can hear. I spare a glance behind me but my pursuer is
hidden by the stacks. My pulse spikes when I realize the stairs aren’t where I
thought they’d be.
    No time to stand there in the
open--I dart between the stacks and try to think where I might’ve gotten turned
around.
    My pursuer slows his pace, as well,
as if checking between the shelves. Pulse racing in my ears, I try to steady my
breath and hold perfectly still.
    Who is he? What does he want? Never
in my life have I wished to see a security guard as badly as I do now. But I
hadn’t seen a guard all night. My heart pounds even louder when the realization
hits: I’m alone in a dark library with no one to hear my screams.
    The footsteps have stopped. At
least, I haven’t heard anything in the last thirty seconds.
    Where is he now? What’s he doing?
    Instead of sticking my head past
the stacks to peek into the main aisle, I stand on my tiptoes and peer in
between the books through the shelf.
    “ Lost, little girl? ” My pursuer is
on the other side of the bookshelf, staring directly at me.
    My breath catches in my throat.
Something about his voice, that line, sounds familiar. Like something I
might’ve heard in a dream.
    He walks out from behind the books
and I see it’s the jock, Mr. Studious, from the table across the room.
    I breathe half a sigh of relief. But only half. He could, after all, still be out to kill me.
He’s even larger up close. My eyes flicker to his bulging biceps, the
musculature of his chest visible through his thin shirt.
    Yes, he could still very well kill
me.
    “What do you want?” I stammer while
backing away to the opposite aisle.
    “I think you know what I want,” he
rasps. And there again...that voice...This feels like a puzzle in a dream that
my mind is struggling to solve.
    Even if I ran, he’d catch me in two
bounds. “Please, I...”
    “That’s a very beautiful necklace,”
he says, never taking his intense eyes off of mine. “I would’ve thought you’d
remember who gave it to you...pet.”
    I gasp. Could it be? I peer up at
him, but it’s hard to tell. That night was two and a half years ago, and I
spent half the time blindfolded and the other half in the dark. Since then,
time has made his face more and more unfocused in my memory, until I just
skimmed over specifics and thought of him as the swarthy, breathtaking god who
possessed me for an exquisitely delicious night.
    “Master?” I ask.
    He responds by claiming my lips, claiming me . In one motion, he pushes me
against the stacks, grabs my wrists and holds them above me, and everything
comes rushing back. “It really is you,” I murmur.
    “Have you missed me, my pet?” he
mumbles into the kiss.
    Miss him doesn’t even cover it. I yearned for him every night since