Four - The smell of blood

Alessandra's POV

"Ale… Alessandra."

My name escaped in a breathless whisper, unsteady and weak.

His scent filled my lungs, leather and spice, tinged with the faintest hint of blood. He towered over me, broad, unyielding, his presence so heavy I could feel it pressing into my bones.

"Why are you in my house?"

I opened my mouth, trying to explain, to piece together something that would make sense to him—but his expression didn’t shift. Didn’t soften. Didn’t let me go.

Then my gaze flicked past him to the mirror on the wall. My stomach clenched. A shard of glass was lodged deep in his back, right in the muscle, he wouldn't reach it on his own .

He hadn’t even noticed.

"If you were Jeremy's fiancée, I would know."

His grip on me loosened. For a fraction of a second, I thought maybe he was letting me go—

Then he pulled out a gun.

Click.

The sound ripped through the air, shoving every other thought out of my head.

"I'm not going to ask you again."

I stared at him, my breath caught somewhere in my throat. His eyes were deadpan, utterly unreadable. Cold, hollow, and patient.

A tear slid down my cheek. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

This couldn’t be how I died.

Not like this. Not in some stranger’s house, with too much to lose and no one who would miss me.

He blinked, then swayed just slightly, like he was forcing himself to stay upright, I could fight him but he would crush me still..His body was still a threat—all power and muscle—but the blood dripping from his head, the sluggish way he shifted, told me he was on the verge of collapse.

I took a slow breath, steadying myself. "You're concussed," I said, my voice almost steady. "Let me help you. I can pull out the glass and clean your wounds."

I just need time to get to my phone, call my father , he won't let me die …Right?

His gaze flicked over me, searching.

Then finally he stepped back.

The suffocating weight of his grip was gone, but his presence was still there, pinning me in place. His stare wasn’t as empty as before, but it was still something else. Not warmth. Not mercy.

I didn’t know what it was, but it kept me rooted to the spot.

Then his eyes moved lower.

A slow, unhurried assessment.

My breath caught.

His head tilted slightly, gaze returning to my face, and for the first time, his expression shifted—not deadpan, but something close to confusion? Amused?

Or maybe just… unimpressed.

I followed his gaze, looking down at myself.

Oh.

I was practically Naked ; The sheer pink lace lingerie ,a bralette ,high cut panties Mini robe was supposed to offer some modesty if I bothered to tie it .

I had been twisting, turning, trying to sleep, and I had changed into something more breathable—and now this was what he was seeing.

My head snapped up.

He hadn’t moved. Hadn’t smirked. Hadn’t reacted at all. But the way he was looking at me—like he had already stripped me bare in his mind—

It was worse than any smirk.

"I should, um… change," I murmured.

His head tilted the other way. Then, finally—"First aid is in the kitchen."

His gaze lifted to my face, as if deciding something.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to move.

The kitchen was cold, sterile. My fingers trembled as I opened the cabinet, pulling out the first aid kit. When I turned back—

He was pulling his shirt over his head.

My breath stuttered.

Hard muscle. Broad shoulders. Thick, defined abs.

His body wasn’t just built—it was carved, sculpted from violence,A Full Sleeve tattoo, a combination of smoke, roses, and skulls.

Italian writing ; Veni, Vidi, Vici.

I came, I saw, I conquered.

A warrior’s creed.

A killer’s promise.

My grip tightened around the first aid kit, my pulse thrumming in my ears.

He came closer.

Sharp-cut jaw. A mouth carved in sin. Eyes that should never be called beautiful but somehow were.

I should have moved. I should have spoken. I should have done something.

But all I could do was stare.

The first aid box nearly slipped from my hands. My fingers tightened around it just in time, the rough edges pressing into my skin as I walked over to him. He wasn’t touching me, but somehow, it felt like he was.

He sat down with his back to me, broad and scared.

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath, steadying myself before reaching for the glass lodged in his back.

One pull. A sharp, clean motion.

He didn’t flinch. Not once.

But I flinched for him.

The sight of his back, the faded scars layered over fresh wounds—it sent something twisting inside me, something tight and unfamiliar.

I stitched him up, slow and careful, my fingers ghosting over the hardened ridges of his muscles. Beneath my touch, his body was all heat and tension.

Then I moved to his front.

Blood streaked his skin, trailing through the dark lines of his tattoos. The metallic scent mixed with sweat, sharp and intoxicating. His disheveled hair clung to his forehead, damp and unruly, shadowing the cut just above his brow.

I knelt, the gauze in my fingers, my breath unsteady as I reached for him.

Like clockwork, his eyes found mine.

And knocked the breath from my lungs.

I parted my lips, but nothing came out. The air between us felt thick—wired, wrong—like it shouldn’t have been there at all.

I pressed the gauze to his wound, my hand barely steady. His gaze didn’t waver. Even when I looked away. Even when I couldn’t bring myself to hold it.

His lip was bruised too, split at the corner. My fingers hovered, hesitation pressing against my ribs.

I finished, but I didn’t move. My eyes flicked back to him, and it didn’t help that our faces were just inches apart.

His breath was warm against my skin, laced with something dark, something unreadable.

I exhaled shakily.

“Are you still going to kill me?” I whispered.

He didn’t blink.

“That depends on if your story checks out.” His voice was low, measured. Not a threat, not a promise—just a simple, brutal fact.

His breath fanned against my cheek. I felt it. I felt him.

I swallowed and stood, forcing distance between us, snapping the first aid box shut with more force than necessary.

The tension in my stomach still hadn’t eased.

Then his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen before answering.

"Hey, I just remembered—I ditched someone at your place." The voice on the other end was smooth, careless. Male. Amused.

Jeremy.

"Her name should be… Alexander? Alessandra? Something along the lines—oh, fuck."

A low, breathy moan followed.

I froze.

Jeremy was having sex. He ditched me to have sex…

"Well, please don’t kill her," he continued, completely unfazed. "And I better see you at dinner. I’m currently at an org—"

he hung up mid-sentence.

He looked at me again, searching, his expression unreadable.

"Guess I won’t be killing you, then," he said, like it was the simplest conclusion in the world. "You should go back to whatever room you came from."

I nodded once. "Okay," I said quietly.

I made it to the door before stopping.

Turning back, I studied him. This stranger. This man who had almost killed me. This man who still might.

"What’s your name?" I asked, voice barely above a murmur. "If I’m staying here, I might as well know."

My life had already crumbled beyond recognition.

Too many things were wrong. I wasn’t even talking about the dead man in the living room…

My father hated me. My sister didn’t care. My so-called fiancé had ditched me for an orgy. And now?

Now I had a housemate who wanted to kill me.

I had never hit a lower point.

I was exhausted.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just watched me.

Then, finally—

"Killian."