Devil in the Moonlight

Lyla

The library always feels different in the mornings. Quieter, softer—before the footsteps and chatter and whispered questions fill the space. I stand in the aisle between Fiction and History, inhaling the familiar perfume of old paper and dust. Most people wrinkle their noses at it. To me, it smells like belonging.

I trail my fingers along the spines of worn books, memorized from years of shelving, of recommending to eager hands. This place has been more than a job—it’s been my anchor. My sanctuary. Where I’ve tutored children who struggled to read. Where I’ve sat with men and women who had no homes and no hope, helping them fill out forms for work or housing. Where I’ve hidden myself among stories when my own life felt like a nightmare.

And now it’s slipping away.

Sold. Bought like it was nothing more than bricks and mortar. Bought by him.

Cyrus Black.

The name alone is enough to make people lower their voices. I’ve read the articles, heard the stories. The billionaire with blood in his smile. Old money. Royal lineage. His family’s fortune stretches back centuries, and now he stretches his empire over half of London. Real estate, finance, hotels—everything stamped with his name.

And now, he’s stamped it over my community library.

I tug at the frayed sleeve of my cardigan, palms clammy. Today he’s coming here—to inspect the building he’s purchased. To walk through these aisles, to see none of what I see, none of what this place means. Just a decaying structure ripe for demolition.

My stomach twists. I shouldn’t care this much. It’s just a job. But it isn’t. It’s more. It’s everything.

A low murmur drifts from the front desk—volunteers whispering. The atmosphere shifts, thick with unease, and I know before I hear the echo of polished shoes on marble that he’s arrived.

My chest tightens.

I peer around the corner, and there he is.

Cyrus Black.

Taller than I imagined. A black suit fitted so perfectly it looks dangerous, like it could cut. His dark hair is slicked back, his expression carved from stone. He moves through the library like he already owns not just the building, but the people in it. Everyone shrinks, the staff stepping aside like shadows.

I freeze. My throat closes. Every instinct screams to stay hidden. To let him pass, let him sneer and order and destroy without ever noticing me.

But then I hear him.

His voice is low, smooth—and cruel. “Tear it down to the foundation. Strip out the rot. This place is a mausoleum, nothing more. In a month, it will be gone.”

Something inside me fractures.

No.

Not after everything this library has given me. Not after everything I’ve seen it give others.

My pulse hammers. I grip the edge of the bookshelf until my knuckles burn, forcing air into my lungs. My stutter will betray me. He’ll see me tremble, hear me falter, and laugh. Like he used to.

But I’ve spent too long letting men silence me.

I swallow hard, gathering courage like it’s broken glass in my fists, and step out from behind the shelves.

“M–Mr. Black?”

The sound of my voice carries through the hush. He stops. Slowly, he turns his head, and his gaze pins me where I stand. Dark eyes, colder than I thought possible. A predator cataloguing prey.

And when he speaks, it’s with the kind of disdain that chills the air.

“You must be the librarian.” His lips curl, not into a smile but something sharper. “Tell me—do they pay you in dust? Or are you here on some misguided mission to save the world, one moldy book at a time?”

My knees threaten to buckle. My tongue trips, betraying me, but I push through the fear.

“This l–library… it m–matters.”

His brows lift, faint amusement flickering. “Does it now? To whom? Children with nothing better to do? Vagrants looking for warmth? Spare me. Sentiment doesn’t pay bills.”

I take a breath, steadying. “It’s n–not sentiment. It’s hope.”

For the briefest second, something flickers behind his eyes—something I can’t name. But then it vanishes, buried beneath ice. He steps closer, close enough that I feel swallowed by him.

“Hope,” he repeats softly, like it’s a word in a language he despises. “Do you know what hope buys you, little librarian?” His mouth hovers at a cruel smirk. “Nothing. The world isn’t kind to people like you. People who shake when they speak. People who cling to scraps of charity as though it changes anything. Hope is worthless. Money wins. Power wins. I win.”

My voice wavers, but I don’t back down. “Y–You don’t scare me.”

The corner of his mouth tilts, though it isn’t a smile. It’s a threat.

“You should be terrified.”

Cyrus

Pathetic.

That’s the word that comes to mind as I watch her—this trembling little librarian with her cardigans and her wide, earnest eyes. She stands there like a lamb that’s convinced itself it can bare its teeth at a wolf.

Hope. She actually said the word hope to me, as though it’s currency.

I almost laughed in her face. Almost. But no—laughter is too generous. Instead, I let the truth slice through her stammered bravado. Hope is nothing. It’s weakness dressed up as virtue. It’s the language of fools who think the world owes them kindness.

And her stutter—Christ. The way her words broke in her throat. If I were a better man, maybe I’d pity her. But pity is poison. I learned that long ago. Weakness spreads if you let it. Better to crush it where it stands.

I turn away from her, dismissing her with the same ease I dismiss anyone foolish enough to get in my way. My footsteps echo through the high ceilings as I trail my hand across a line of shelves, dust gathering on my skin. Disgusting. A mausoleum, exactly as I said.

“This place is worth more in pieces than whole,” I tell my associate without looking back. “Demolition begins within the month. I want every brick stripped, every ounce of rot burned out. We’ll build something profitable here, not a shrine for vagrants and sentimental idiots.”

From the corner of my eye, I see her flinch at the word vagrants. Good. Let it sting. Let it remind her how little she matters.

And yet—

Damn it all.

She didn’t back down. She shook, she stuttered, she looked like she’d collapse under the weight of her own nerves, but she stood there. She told me I didn’t scare her.

No one says that to me. Not in years.

Everyone fears me. As they should.

But her? She’s either brave, or stupid. Most likely both.

I glance back, just once, and find her watching me with those green eyes—frightened, yes, but lit with some stubborn fire she has no business holding.

It irritates me. Infuriates me.

Because if there’s one thing I hate more than weakness… it’s weakness that refuses to break when I press down on it.

Lyla

The office at the back of the library feels too small for all of us. Chairs scrape against the old wooden floor, whispers bouncing off the walls like frightened birds. No one knows exactly why we’ve been called in. We don’t have to ask. The truth has been hanging over us ever since Cyrus Black stepped through these doors yesterday.

Still, the hope lingers. Thin, fragile, desperate.

I sit near the window, hands knotted together in my lap, staring down at my scuffed shoes. I tell myself not to tremble, but my body doesn’t listen. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me yesterday, like I was something he’d scrape from the bottom of his shoe.

The door opens, and silence falls.

It isn’t him.

A man in a dark, tailored suit steps inside, carrying a leather folder under his arm. His expression is as warm as stone. He doesn’t bother with introductions, doesn’t even glance at us properly.

He sets the folder on the desk, opens it, and begins to read.

“As of this morning, Mr. Black is the sole owner of this property. Effective immediately, your contracts are terminated. You will each receive your final pay by the end of the week. You have until close of business today to collect your belongings and vacate the premises.”

The words slam into the room like a hammer.

A woman at the front gasps. Someone else mutters a curse. My throat closes, and I grip the arms of my chair to keep from shaking apart.

Terminated. Vacate. Today.

The library—the place that saved me, that gave me purpose, that gave so many people hope—is gone with a few clipped sentences from a stranger’s mouth.

I blink hard, trying to force back the sting in my eyes. Around me, staff rise, some protesting, some too stunned to speak. The man doesn’t flinch. He closes the folder, tucks it under his arm, and steps aside like the matter is settled.

It is.

The others file out, muttering, sniffling, clinging to their bags. I stand slowly, feeling unmoored, as though the floor beneath me has been ripped away. My sanctuary is gone. My job is gone. My chest aches with the weight of it.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the door.

“Miss Banks?”

The voice stops me cold.

I turn back. The suited man is watching me now, his gaze steady, unreadable.

“There is… another matter. Mr. Black has a position for you.”