Walking home, I weave in and out of a stream of people, ignoring the holographic ads triggered in front of various storefronts as I pass. I have no desire to brighten my complexion with an enzyme spray or gain a new pair of second-skin jeans, but the ad for a new cosmetic hologram catches my eye. Not having to actually put on makeup sounds nice, though the company that makes it has had to scale back how much they can change facial appearance. A law was passed because too many criminals were using the tech as disguises, either to commit crimes or to avoid being captured later.

I glance away from the ad as I walk past. The sun is out but all that’s visible is a sliver of faded blue sky between the hundred-plus-story skyscrapers lining either side of the street. I've seen pictures of skies that seem to never end, views of flat, grassy plains with unobstructed horizons. I wonder what that must have been like. Probably better than the cramped quarters we have now. But maybe all that space would freak me out after being so used to how things are. Contemplating it, I turn the corner and the one oasis in the jungle of steel and glass comes into view. Home. The library. One of the very few still left. With books going digital, the market for actual physical copies has all but dried up. Sure, they have historical value, but not a lot of practicality.

At least not to the government. I can't blame them. Digital copies of literature are much more cost effective, easily distributed, not subject to being lost, etc. Doesn't mean I don't prefer the touch, the scent, the weight of an actual book in my hands. The tactile sense of the pages as I turn them with my fingers. But the lack of government support has real world consequences when it means libraries like ours are now privately owned. Without a lot of donor interest.

I can’t help but notice the disrepair of the small, two-story stone building that holds so many good memories for me. Mold grows on the stones, the discoloration so widespread that the original warmth of the color is all but lost. There are chips in some blocks, but some are so worn away they need to be replaced. They needed to be replaced years ago, truthfully. Same as the uneven roof. So many patches have been slapped onto the old tile that it’s more patch than anything in an attempt to keep the rain from damaging the precious contents of the old, ramshackle building. But, like everything, proper repairs would cost money. Money that we don't have.

I sigh as my eyes fall on the tiny, prized front yard. More rare than even books, a small flower bed filled with happy little yellow daisies. Completely out of place in the cold city and all the more welcome for it. I tend to it religiously. There are some weeds taking root that I better take care of now if I want to keep the flowers from being strangled. Putting down my bag, I drop to my knees and get started. I keep a sharp eye on the flowers, so there aren't too many weeds to pull but I spot another one trying to hide.

"Oh no you don't," I mutter.

As I reach towards the back, trying to get it from where it’s wormed its way into a hard-to-reach place, an out of place sound makes me go still. Yelling. Someone is yelling inside. Heart dropping, I scramble to my feet, picking up my bag. There’s no good reason for that sound. Cautiously, I climb the few steps to the heavy front door. It's open about a foot, my father’s pleading voice drifts from inside and my stomach sinks.

"I'm sorry, but-"

"Sorry is not good enough!" a deep voice roars. Deep enough that it reverberates in my stomach, telling my body, my primitive self, that I should run, run away from the threat.

But my father is in there. Running is not an option. Taking a deep breath, I push the door open and rush in. All of the lights are on, not doing any favors to the worn down living area. I do my best to keep things clean, but there’s only so much I can do when everything is so old. The rug is worn, as are the floorboards and the couches. What was once most likely a floral pattern on the upholstery is now indistinct, dark blobs of faded color on a light background. The walls are in need of a good painting and the fireplace needs much more than a good cleaning. We don't have many of the modern amenities like automatic dusters and floor cleaners, or even the hologram room veneers used by people when guests come over. No, everything in this room, as with the rest of the place, is real. Gritty, dirty, worn, but honest.

Which makes the tableau in front of me even harder to take in. In the middle of the room, on that faded rug, my father cowers in front of a...beast. A tall, muscled Singarti, his stance threatening as he looms over my much smaller father, his hands clenched in fists. He’s one of the most animalistic Singarti I’ve ever come across with long hair, thick beard, pointed ears and fangs. Not that I've met many. We don't run in any fancy circles that meet Earth's royalty, not eager to interact with any of those butt kissing assholes. Selling your soul for more money, more space, more power seems like an unfair trade to me.

The Singarti's clothing is in sharp contrast with my father's carefully mended and patched trousers and shirt. The stranger is in a very fine quality button down and pants, the boots on his large feet obviously well made. He reeks of money and privilege, even as he lets off an aura of pure danger. It's an arresting contrast to his larger-than-life, dominating presence.

As I step closer, his head whips around to regard me with a snarl and our eyes collide. His dark ones are full of the same rage as his voice, raking over me in an aggressive scan. A slight shiver runs through my body, the heat in his gaze now a little...different. Ignoring my disconcertedness, I march up, inserting myself between him and my father.

"What do you want?" I demand, forcing him to take a step back as I take one forward. I will not bow and scrape before this man, not when he is threatening my father. I don’t care if he is royalty. "Why are you in our home attempting to terrorize my father?"

"Your home, is it?" he asks silkily, his voice much quieter now, though there’s still a slight roughness at the edge. He turns his head to look around in an exaggerated manner. "I have to say, it is not quite to my taste."

My irritation rises at that arrogant comment. Is he trying to make me ashamed of what we've worked so hard to maintain? He's probably never done a hard day's work in his life. "Not all of us are born with silver spoons in our mouths," I say as his eyes meet mine once again. "And I don’t particularly care if you like it or not."

Perhaps I should be more careful of my words. There’s an obvious gap between our socioeconomic levels. And thus our power. But something about his disdain has all the rash words spilling out of my mouth.

"Hmm." He smiles slowly, his fangs clearly apparent in a dangerously handsome face. Someone so beast-like shouldn’t be so attractive. It’s unfair. "That is a pity. I am certain a silver spoon would look quite nice in your mouth." His eyes drop down to my lips and I swallow, licking them without thinking. Raising an eyebrow, he continues, "There are a few other things that would look quite nice between your pretty lips." His voice is husky now, low with promise.

An unusual heat courses low in my belly, a strange warmth suffuses me as my eyes lock on his. Focus. I have to focus.

"What do you want?" I demand, though my voice is not quite as hard as I wanted. I turn to look at my father over my shoulder. His face is ashen as he looks at the man, his fear clear. "Who is he, Father?" I ask in a softer voice. "Why is he here?"

"Isabelle," he says, his eyes flicking to me. "Isa. I...the library..."

"Isabelle."

I turn to the Singarti, the way my name sounds in his deep voice sends another odd tingle through me. It’s almost like he’s savoring the sounds of my name.

"I am Prince Adir," he continues, his eyes roaming my face. "And what Mr. Stone is attempting to tell you is that the library is in debt." He folds his hands behind his back. "A great deal of debt, to be quite clear. Debt that I have bought."

He watches my face as that information sinks in and a cold chill shudders down my spine, nodding at my realization. "Yes. So, you see, I want the money. I want the debt settled. However," he spreads his hands out wide to either side, gesturing to encompass everything around us, "if he cannot pay the debt, I will take the library, as is my right. I can recoup the losses by tearing it down and building something modern, efficient, and much more valuable in its place."

Tear down the library? Is he insane? "This is one of the few remaining physical libraries in the United States! In the world!" I exclaim. "You can’t simply tear it down! That is...it's..." I sputter, not knowing how to fully explain the anger and frustration at his thoughtless dismissal of everything I love.

"It is mine now, and you do not have the money to repay the debt," he says calmly. "And if it is mine, I can do exactly what I please with it." He raises a sardonic brow. "Whether or not you agree with my decision."

I stare at the beast in shock. Spinning around, I confront my father. "Is this true?" I demand, my heart thumping hard in my chest, hoping against hope that it isn't true.

My father looks miserable, his shoulders slumped, every one of his years showing clearly on his lined, beloved face. And I know. I know even before he confirms it.

"Yes," he says simply, his voice haggard. "It is true."

The library is Father's life, his joy. It’s the only thing he was able to cling to when my mother passed away. Her memory lives here, in the walls, in the garden. Losing it may very well kill him. I can't let that happen. Not to him. He deserves so much better and life has already been so hard on him. But I don't have any money. I have nothing of value to offer.

I pause as I consider that. Nothing but... myself. I have myself. I turn back to Prince Adir, my insides twisting with a painful combination of fear, anxiety and anger.

And an uncomfortable lust.

"Will you consider a trade?" I ask through numb lips, wondering if the idea is insane. That's a lie. I know it's insane.

He raises his eyebrows as he tilts his head. But he doesn't say anything.

I take a deep breath. "I offer myself in lieu of my father's debts. If you will forgive them all," I state clearly, not wanting there to be any confusion as to what bargain I'm willing to strike.

"Isa!" my father gasps behind me. "No!"

But I keep my eyes on Prince Adir's face, watching as his expression turns calculating.

Come on.

Take it.

Take me.