59

ALINA

Alexander coming into my room like it’s just another part of his day has become an almost daily occurrence. So much that I started looking forward to when the door would bang open and hai huge form will fill the doorway. And when he doesn’t come, I feel disappointment gnawing at the back of my neck.

Sometimes we talk. Most times, we don’t. He’ll sit on the couch with his laptop, tapping away at something I never ask about, and I’ll curl up with one of the books he’s bought me. We stay like that until it’s time to eat or until he has to leave. Then he would kiss ms softly. But brief and just enough to make me forget how to breathe. And he’ll be gone almost as soon as he came.

He sometimes grunted something like he needed to go while his lips were still pressed against mine.

I never let myself believe he said that because he would rather stay here. That would be too much even for me.

His kisses. God. Even the smallest peck leaves me dizzy. It doesn’t matter how brief, it still makes my toes curl and the world tilt a little.

So when he walked in again, unannounced like usual, I wasn’t surprised. Lisa, who still hadn’t fully returned to her usual self, got up and slipped out the moment she saw him. She always does.

Not that he notices. His eyes are only ever on me.

But something about him felt off today. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tighter than usual. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen him enough times now, but I knew right away that something wasn’t right.

I don’t usually push. I tread carefully, always. I don’t ask him unnecessary questions. I don’t want to cross invisible lines I don’t even understand. But asking if he’s okay, that doesn’t count as crossing a line, does it?

“Hey,” I said gently, closing the book and setting it on the bench beside me.

That bench has quietly become my favorite spot in the room. Unless I’m sleeping, I’m always there.

He didn’t answer, which worried me. But I didn’t show it. I’ve gotten good at hiding what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. You have to, to survive this place.

“You’ll never last if you wear your emotions like that,” Claude had said to me just last week. Then, as usual, he disappeared again. When he returned, I didn’t ask questions. I wasn’t stupid. I pretended not to notice how he wouldn’t meet my eyes how his brother’s influence shadowed him like a second skin.

“What are you reading?” Alexander asked suddenly, picking up the book I’d just set down.

Heat bloomed in my cheeks. It wasn’t nearly as explicit as the one he’d tossed into the fireplace that day, but still. The memory of that poor, innocent book made me cringe.

“Hmm. Interesting,” he said, though I doubt he actually read a single line. He flipped through a few pages, then set it aside.

I never know what to say around him. Most times, he leads the conversation. But today… today, he looked worn down. Drained.

Should I speak first? Or would that annoy him?

Everyone keeps telling me not to let him walk all over me. That he likes strong women. I want to believe I don’t care what he likes, what he wants. That I’m just doing this to survive. I’ll keep saying it to myself until it becomes true. Because the truth was, I love him coming here just to spend time. And how he kisses me like he can’t help himself. And when we have sex, how he loses control.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room and sat on the bed.

That alone startled me. He’s never done that before.

I kept my expression carefully blank, though inside I was on high alert. His gaze locked on me, intense and unwavering, like he was peeling away skin and bone and looking straight into my soul.

“Why do you ask?” he said, voice unreadable.

“You don’t look like you usually do.”

He gave a noncommittal hum in response, then leaned back on the mattress, his legs still on the floor.

I stared, unsure what to do. His eyes were closed, but I didn’t believe he was sleeping. I wasn’t even sure he could sleep. I’d never seen him do it.

I’ve always had this suspicion that he only rests for an hour or two at most. If at all.

I kept watching him, puzzled.

“I can feel you staring.” One of his eyes cracked open, catching me red handed.

I jerked my gaze away like a kid caught snooping.

“I said pretend I’m not here,” he murmured.

I forced my hands to stop trembling as I picked up the book again, flipping to a page, any page and tried to focus.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his eyes closing again.

Reading with him there was impossible. He wasn’t even doing anything. Just lying there, still as stone. I wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.

I tried to focus again, but the words swam. I read and reread the same line over and over. Finally, I flipped the page just to make it look like I was reading. In case he was watching. In case he was testing me.

Not that I think he has the time or interest to test me. He has far more important things on his mind.

“I can hear your brain running from here,” Alexander said, sitting up again.

I froze, my eyes dropping to the book like it would somehow protect me from embarrassment.

“Read to me,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Read out loud. It might help you focus.”

Panic sparked in my chest. No, I wanted to scream. That’s the worst idea he has ever had. But I nodded slowly, turning back to the page.

My throat tightened. The words refused to come. Why now?

He just waited, calm and quiet. Watching me. Like he had all the time in the world.

“Any problem?” he asked, eyebrows lifting slightly.

I shook my head, cleared my throat, and told myself to just start reading.

I closed my eyes, took a breath, and then read the first sentence my eyes landed on.

“His breath fanned over her dripping wet folds. ‘You’re so wet—’”

My voice caught. My eyes shot up to find Alexander watching me, gaze darker now. I glanced back at the page and realized that was not where I had left off.

Panic bloomed. How did they go from arguing to that in two paragraphs? I had no answer.

“Why did you stop?” he asked, clearly amused.

“I… nothing,” I stammered, trying to flip past it.

He stood and walked over. I held my breath as he approached, only to gesture for me to scoot over. Then, without asking, he sat beside me.

Too close.

“Come on,” he said softly. When I didn’t move, he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me gently between his legs until my back rested against his chest.

“Better,” he murmured against my ear.

I could barely swallow.

“Now give me that.” He took the book from my hands before I could protest.

I clenched my fists in my lap, praying for strength.

I wasn’t going to survive this.