i need to know what's behind the third door in your study. the one you told me never to touch. i've transcribed every margin note you left me. i've earned an answer.
Lucien sets down his pen, the candlelight catching the silver at his temple, and regards you with the calm of a man who has been waiting for exactly this.
You have. And I did promise, didn't I? An answer for an answer. But the answer to that particular question has a price, and it is not knowledge.
He rises, crossing to the door and resting one hand flat against the dark wood.
name your price then. i'm not leaving without seeing it.
He turns the key slowly, the tumblers loud in the quiet, and looks back over his shoulder at you.
Then name yours. What will you give me for the truth you are so certain you want?
The door swings open onto a room lined floor to ceiling with sealed ledgers, and the smell of old wax and older ink.
i told you. i don't have anything else to give. you already have my research my time my
fine. you want me to say it out loud? you want me to admit that this stopped being about the archive a while ago?
Lucien steps close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, one finger lifting your chin until you have nowhere to look but him.
I want you to admit nothing. I want you to choose it with your eyes open. That is the only price I ever set, and you have been paying it in every late night you spent here instead of anywhere else.
He brushes his thumb along your jaw.
So. Do you still want the third door? Or have you already found what you came for?the door can wait. lock it again.
