Chapter 3: The Fire within

The glaring screen of my cracked phone finally went dark.

​Thirty-four missed calls. Now thirty-five.

​The sudden silence in the penthouse was deafening. It pressed against my eardrums, heavy and suffocating. Leo had given up. Or maybe he was just busy throwing on his clothes, scrambling around our bedroom, trying to formulate a lie pathetic enough to fix what I had just seen. I imagined him staring at the ruined caramel cake smeared across our hardwood floor. The thought made my stomach heave all over again.

​My hand was still trapped under Alexander’s on the marble table. His palm was huge, rough with callouses, completely swallowing my freezing fingers. The contrast was jarring. My skin was ice-cold, pale, and trembling; his was tanned, steady, and radiating an impossible amount of heat.

​He didn't let go immediately. He kept his grip firm, his thumb slowly smoothing over my bruised knuckles. He was staring at the black screen of the phone like it deeply offended him.

​"He’s panicking," I whispered. My voice sounded wrecked. It didn't even sound like me anymore. "He knows I saw them."

​Alexander finally looked up. The absolute darkness in his eyes made my breath hitch. "Let him panic. Panic is what guilty men do when they realize they can no longer control the narrative."

​He picked up my phone. Before I could even ask what he was doing, his thick thumb held down the power button. The screen flashed the power-off prompt. He swiped it without hesitation. The phone died completely, cutting me off from my old life.

​He tossed the useless piece of plastic onto the far end of the coffee table.

​"You don't exist to him tonight," Alexander stated. His tone brooked zero argument. "Tonight, you are here. And he is going to sit in the mess he made and rot."

​A violent shiver suddenly racked my body. It started deep in my spine and violently shook my shoulders. The adrenaline of the confrontation was finally wearing off, leaving me completely hollowed out and freezing. My wet clothes were plastered to my skin. The thin silk of my blouse was clinging to my chest, completely soaked through with dirty city rain.

​Alexander’s eyes dropped to my shivering frame. His jaw tightened. The dangerous, simmering tension in the room shifted instantly, replaced by something entirely authoritative.

​"You're freezing," he said, abruptly standing up. He towered over me, a massive shadow against the backdrop of the glittering city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Come."

​I tried to stand, but my scraped feet screamed in agony the second they touched the hardwood floor. I let out a sharp gasp, my knees buckling instantly.

​Alexander caught me before I could fall. His arm hooked under my knees, his other arm wrapping tightly around my back. He lifted me straight off the ground, clutching me to his broad chest like I weighed absolutely nothing.

​"I can walk," I lied weakly, my face burning with humiliation. My cheek was pressed directly against his white dress shirt. I could hear his heartbeat. It was slow, steady, and completely unbothered by my weight.

​"Don't be stupid, Serena. Your feet are shredded," he muttered, carrying me down a long, dark hallway. "You’ve done enough running for one night."

​He pushed open a heavy oak door with his shoulder, carrying me into a master bathroom that was bigger than my entire apartment. It was a cavern of dark slate, heated floors, and a massive glass shower. The air in here smelled intensely of him. That sharp, intoxicating mix of cedarwood, bergamot, and expensive soap.

​He set me down gently on the edge of a massive, freestanding black marble tub. The heated stone immediately sent a wave of relief through my freezing legs.

​He didn't hover. He turned around and opened a deep mahogany cabinet, pulling out a massive, plush black towel. He set it on the counter. Then, without a word, he started unbuttoning his crisp white dress shirt.

​My breath caught in my throat. I completely froze.

​He wasn't doing it to be seductive. He was just being practical, but my panicked brain couldn't process it. He slipped the shirt off his broad shoulders, revealing a torso that looked like it had been carved out of granite. He was heavily muscled, littered with faded, pale scars across his ribs that spoke of a very violent past, a past the family only ever whispered about behind closed doors.

​He tossed the massive white dress shirt onto my lap. It was still warm from his body heat.

​"Take those wet rags off before you catch pneumonia," he commanded, keeping his back half-turned to me to give me a fraction of privacy. "Use the shirt. It will swallow you, but it’s dry."

​I gripped the soft fabric. "Alexander, I... I can't stay here. This is wrong. You're his Godfather. You're paying for the venue. If the family finds out I'm in your apartment—"

​He whipped around. The sudden, violent speed of his movement made me flinch. He planted both his large hands on the edge of the marble tub, leaning down until his face was inches from mine. The sheer physical dominance of the man was terrifying.

​"Do not speak his name to me again," Alexander growled, his voice dropping to a lethal, vibrating rasp. "Do not worry about the venue. Do not worry about the family. They answer to me. I own them. I own him."

​His dark eyes bore into mine, stripping away every single defense I had left.

​"You are safe here," he said, and the absolute certainty in his voice finally broke my resistance. "Change your clothes, Serena. I will be waiting out there."

​He straightened up, his bare chest expanding as he took a deep breath, and walked out of the bathroom, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind him with a soft click.

​I sat there for a long time, just listening to the quiet hum of the heated floors.

​I was in the Godfather’s bathroom. I was holding his shirt.

​My hands shook violently as I reached for the hem of my ruined, soaked blouse. I peeled it off my cold skin. It landed on the floor with a pathetic, wet slap. Next went my skirt, heavy with rain and dirt. I stripped down to nothing but my plain cotton underwear, shivering uncontrollably.

​I caught a glimpse of myself in the massive vanity mirror. I looked like a ghost. My hair was a tangled, wet mess plastered to my skull. My mascara was running down my cheeks in dark, ugly streaks. My lips were blue, swollen from crying. I looked absolutely broken.

​I was the girl who ironed shirts. The girl who waited. The girl who wasn't enough.

​Boring.

​The word echoed in my skull, twisting the knife in my chest. Leo’s voice, thick with lust for another woman. I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back a fresh wave of nausea.

​I grabbed Alexander’s shirt. I slipped my arms into the sleeves.

​It was ridiculously huge. The hem fell down past my mid-thigh, brushing against the back of my knees. The sleeves hung completely past my fingertips. I awkwardly rolled them up, my hands still shaking. But the moment the fabric settled against my skin, a deep, involuntary sigh escaped my lips.

​It was so warm. And it smelled exactly like him. The heavy, intoxicating scent of cedar and smoke wrapped around me, seeping into my pores. It felt like being held. It felt like armor.

​I splashed hot water on my face, scrubbing the ruined makeup away until my skin was raw. I ran a comb through my tangled hair, wincing as it snagged. I delayed as long as I could, terrified of opening that door and facing him again.

​But I couldn't hide in his bathroom forever.

​I took a deep, shuddering breath, gripped the cold brass handle, and pulled the door open.

​The penthouse was darker now. He had dimmed the overhead lights. A fire was crackling in the massive modern fireplace in the living room, throwing sharp, flickering orange shadows across the walls.

​Alexander was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the storm. He had poured himself another glass of whiskey. He was still shirtless, the firelight catching the heavy muscles of his back and the dark ink of a tattoo peeking out from the waistband of his trousers.

​He heard my bare feet on the hardwood. He turned around.

​He froze.

​The glass of whiskey stopped halfway to his mouth. His dark eyes locked onto me, slowly dragging down the length of my body. He took in the way his massive white dress shirt swallowed my frame, the way the collar hung off my shoulder, exposing my collarbone. He looked at my bare, bruised legs.

​The air in the room suddenly turned dangerously thick. The crackle of the fire sounded deafening.

​He set his glass down on the table. He didn't take his eyes off me. He started walking toward me, his steps slow, deliberate, like a predator cornering its prey.

​I should have stepped back. I should have crossed my arms defensively. But I was entirely paralyzed by the raw, undisguised hunger burning in his eyes.

​He stopped right in front of me. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. He reached out, his long fingers hooking under the oversized collar of his shirt, resting his knuckles against the pulse pounding frantically in my neck.

​"You look entirely too good in my clothes," he murmured, his voice a dark, sinful rumble that sent a violent shockwave straight down my spine. "It makes me want to do terrible things to you, Serena."

​My breath hitched, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He leaned down, the heat of his skin completely consuming me, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch from mine...