Chapter 4: The Edge of the Cliff

​"It makes me want to do terrible things to you, Serena."

​His words didn't just hang in the air; they sank directly into my skin. My eyes fluttered shut on pure, involuntary instinct. I actually leaned forward, tilting my chin up, blindly chasing the heat of his mouth.

​I didn't care that he was Leo’s Godfather. I didn't care that the diamond engagement ring was still sitting like a heavy, mocking weight on my left hand. The pathetic, starved part of me that had just been shattered into a million pieces didn't care about right and wrong anymore. I just wanted to be consumed. I wanted him to burn away the memory of Chloe’s moans with his bare hands.

​But the kiss didn't come.

​A low, rough groan vibrated deep in Alexander's chest. His knuckles dragged slowly, agonizingly across my collarbone, sending a violent shiver straight down my spine. And then, his hand dropped.

​He took a sharp, jagged breath, stepping back just enough to let the cool air of the penthouse hit my flushed face. My eyes snapped open, a sudden wave of rejection making my stomach twist. Did he change his mind? Did he realize how pathetic I looked?

​"You are shaking," he said, his voice completely raw, stripped of its usual smooth authority.

​I looked down. I was trembling so badly that the hem of his oversized shirt was vibrating against my thighs. The adrenaline was entirely gone, replaced by the sheer, crushing exhaustion of the worst night of my life.

​Alexander’s dark eyes fell to the floor. To my feet.

​The cuts on my soles had started bleeding again, leaving small, smeared red footprints on his immaculate hardwood floor. A dark, ugly curse slipped from his lips.

​Before I could apologize, before I could even take a step back, he moved. He didn't pick me up this time. He simply hooked his arm around my waist, practically dragging me the three steps to the massive charcoal sofa, and pushed me down into the deep velvet cushions.

​"Don't move," he ordered, turning his back on me and striding down the dark hallway.

​I pulled my knees to my chest, burying my face in the collar of his shirt. I felt like a stray dog he had dragged out of the rain. I was bleeding on his floors, wearing his clothes, hiding from the wreckage of my own life. I closed my eyes, but the second I did, I saw Leo’s face perfectly clearly, buried in Chloe’s neck.

​A choked, pathetic sob caught in my throat. I swallowed it down dry. I was done crying over him. I refused to shed another tear for a man who thought my loyalty was boring.

​Footsteps approached. I opened my eyes.

​Alexander was walking back into the living room. He was holding a sleek black first-aid box and a small basin of warm, steaming water, a white towel draped over his broad shoulder. He was still shirtless, the firelight catching the rigid, tense muscles of his abdomen and the dark ink wrapping around his ribs.

​He set the basin on the coffee table. And then, the most powerful, ruthless man in the city dropped to his knees on the floor, right in front of me.

​"Alexander, no," I breathed, my voice cracking in panic. I tried to pull my legs back. "You don't have to do that. I can clean them. Please, you shouldn't—"

​His large hand shot out, wrapping around my left ankle. His grip was like an iron vise, entirely unyielding, but his thumb immediately began stroking the sensitive skin right above my heel.

​"I told you not to move," he murmured, his dark eyes snapping up to meet mine. The intensity in his gaze pinned me to the cushions. "And I told you to stop apologizing to me."

​He gently lifted my foot and submerged it into the basin of warm water.

​I hissed as the water stung the open scrapes, my toes curling instinctively. Alexander didn't flinch. He took a soft cloth and began to wash the dirt and dried blood from my skin.

​I couldn't breathe. I was completely paralyzed by the sheer intimacy of it. This was a man who destroyed corporate empires before breakfast. A man who had politicians in his pocket. And he was kneeling on the floor, gently washing my battered feet like it was the most important task in the world.

​I stared at the heavy slope of his shoulders, at the dark, thick hair falling over his forehead as he focused on cleaning my wounds.

​I had given Leo five years of my life. If I asked him to rub my shoulders after a twelve-hour shift at the hospital, he would sigh, complain about his own day, and maybe give me a half-hearted squeeze before turning on the TV.

​Alexander was meticulously cleaning the dirt from between my toes.

​A fresh, hot tear slipped down my cheek, dropping silently onto the velvet cushion. It wasn't a tear of grief this time. It was a tear of absolute, overwhelming realization. I had settled for scraps for so long that I didn't even know what it looked like to be cared for.

​Alexander pulled my foot from the water, resting my heel against his thick thigh. The contrast of my pale, slender leg resting against the dark, heavy muscle of his thigh made my mouth go entirely dry. He patted my skin dry with the towel, then reached into the black box, pulling out a tube of antiseptic ointment.

​He rubbed the ointment into the scrapes with his thumbs. His touch was firm, methodical, and impossibly gentle.

​Then, he moved to my other foot, repeating the process.

​The silence in the room stretched, pulling tighter and tighter until it felt like a physical wire wrapping around my throat. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the ragged, uneven sound of my own breathing.

​He finished wrapping a small bandage around my worst scrape. But he didn't let go.

​He stayed kneeling between my parted knees. His large hands rested on my ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately, began to stroke the soft skin of my inner calves.

​The air rushed out of my lungs in a shaky exhale.

​His hands slid higher. Past my calves. Up to my knees. The heat of his palms was scorching through the cold air of the room. His calloused fingers brushed against the sensitive skin at the back of my knees, and my hips instinctively jerked forward, chasing the contact.

​Alexander froze.

​He slowly lifted his head. The look in his eyes wasn't comforting anymore. The gentle caretaker was gone, entirely replaced by the ruthless, starving predator I had seen by the windows. His eyes were pitch black, dilated, burning with a kind of possessive lust that terrified and thrilled me all at once.

​His hands slid higher, pushing the oversized hem of his shirt up my thighs.

​"Alexander," I whispered. My voice was nothing but a breath. A plea. A warning. I didn't even know which.

​"Tell me to stop," he commanded, his voice a lethal, vibrating rasp that settled heavy in my core. His large hands gripped my bare thighs, his thumbs resting dangerously close to the plain cotton of my underwear. "Look me in the eye, Serena, and tell me to take my hands off you."

​My chest heaved. I looked down into those dark, dangerous eyes.

​I thought about the ring on my finger. I thought about the wedding invitations sitting in boxes in my living room. I thought about the scandal, the ruin, the absolute chaos that would rain down on my life if anyone found out what was happening right now.

​And then I thought about Chloe’s red stilettos kicked against my baseboards.

​"I don't want you to stop," I whispered, the confession tasting like dark, forbidden honey on my tongue.

​A feral, guttural growl ripped from Alexander's throat.

​He surged upward. He didn't just stand; he crowded into my space, his massive frame looming over me, blocking out the firelight, blocking out the entire world. He planted his hands on the sofa cushions on either side of my head, trapping me completely.

​"If I cross this line," Alexander warned, his face dropping so close to mine that our noses brushed. His breath was hot, smelling of whiskey and pure sin. "There is no going back, Serena. You will never belong to that boy again. You will not return to that life. You will be mine. Completely."

​He hovered right over my lips, offering me one final, agonizing second to save myself.