Chapter 4. Still Under His Spell

Sophia’s POV

“It’s a guest bedroom,” he says, rolling the strap of my purse around his knuckles. 

I stare at my purse, mouth dry and open. I don’t know if it’s shock from learning that I’m spending the night in his bedroom or from having my purse snatched from me. My phone, my money, my passport—all I have left is inside the purse.

“Sophia?”

I shut my mouth and lift my eyes to hold his unreadable gaze. 

“You can use the bathroom here. It has everything you’ll need for a shower,” he murmurs, letting go. Then he walks into the closet.

I scan the room. A neatly laid bed—white sheets, a vanity desk, and a sofa. 

He returns with white towels rolled in his hand and places them on the bed. “They’re fresh… I’ll bring you something to wear.”

I manage a nod, raking a trembling hand through my tangled hair. When he gets to the door, desperation breaks through my shock. “Alexander?”

He turns around. 

“Um… why are you holding on to my purse?”

He exhales, eyes darting as if he’s thinking. But I know he’s not. “For precautionary measures.” 

“I’m-I’m not going to run away.”

“I know,” he replies, deadpan. “You can’t.”

I swallow my next words.

He walks out and shuts the door, leaving me alone.

“Oh, God,” I palm my face with both hands.

What have my parents done?! I ran away for nothing.

“Think, Sophia. Think…” I chant under my breath, clasping my fingers. Yet nothing comes to mind.

His bedroom? Is he going to sleep with me? 

There’s a knock on the door.

I jump, my head snapping in that direction. It’s pushed open, and Alexander walks in, beige and blue striped Polo shirt in hand, and something else.

I put my hands together, playing calm, while my head is in disarray.

“Garvey will get you some clothes. You can wear this for now. This…” he holds something gray to me. “I don’t have women’s underwear. But these are fresh and unworn.”

Boxer shorts?

My lips fall apart.

“I can take it back if you don’t want it.”

“No, I—”

I pause to take a deep breath.

“Thank you,” I murmur, taking them from him without meeting his gaze.

“You can lock the door if it’ll make you feel at ease. Come out to the living room when you’re done.”

I give him a nod.

The minute he leaves, I rush to lock the door.

In the shower, I’m painfully reminded of the cuts and scrapes my escape cost me. One particular cut—long and reddened—curves from the middle of my thigh to the back. A rough stone sliced through. 

Wait! What if Alexander comes inside?

My eyes widen as I go still in the shower. I turn it off, listening for any sound. But only quietness meets my ears. Sighing in relief, I turn the shower on again. I’ll worry about my parents and everything else later. I just need to survive the next thing tonight brings.

Afterward, I carefully slide in my contact lenses in front of the mirror. I’m hyperopic, and it’s a ‘flaw’ that tarnishes the perfect image of a Rose’s daughter. My glasses are only worn at home. I’m that controlled. 

Then I put on the boxer shorts, my bra, and Alexander’s shirt. It swallows me whole, becoming a short, oversized dress. Grabbing my dirty clothes, I exit the room.

The living room is empty. I stroll in, giving myself a little tour with my eyes. Everywhere looks like him—immaculate, tasteful, expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a million-dollar view of the New York skyline, diamonds… It’s dizzying.

“Took you long enough.”

I turn around sharply to see him coming from a hallway.

My heart softly ripples as I stare.

His dark hair is damp, effortlessly falling over his eyes. He’s changed into a loose black button-down and matching pants. My purse is still in his grip. He sets it on the marble coffee table before gesturing to a massive ivory sofa. “Sit. Let me treat your wounds.”

My eyes fall to the first-aid box sitting on the arm of a sofa. When he comes close, I inhale his fresh scent—a mixture of amberwood, cocoa, and the ocean. I almost swoon.

“Put your clothes in that bag.”

My eyes stay on him as I reach for the plastic bag. 

Absent-mindedly, he pulls up his sleeve to grab the first-aid box, but I glimpse a red tattoo just before his sleeve settles.

My eyes widen.

“Sit, Soph,” he repeats, dark eyes tracking back to mine.

He has a tattoo?

Slowly, I sit on the ivory sofa.

He lowers himself in front of me, dropping the first-aid kit on the floor. His eyes are on the ground as he opens the box. He lifts his head now, eyes on my lap while uncapping an antibiotic ointment. He slowly presses a dollop of ointment onto his finger and brings it to my leg. “This might sting a little.”

I brace myself, fingers folding into fists. I wince on contact.

He rubs gently, taking his time on each cut. “They won’t leave scars.”

“Thank you,” I mutter and stare at his head, his sharp nose, his small lips, his long lashes, his large, veiny hand, wondering why in the world he wants to marry me. How did my dad arrange this? And why would Alexander even agree?

“Let me see the other one.” He commands softly.

I hesitate, yet I pull my thighs apart by only a few inches, showing him just the beginning of the long cut.

“You’re lucky it’s not deep.”

He picks up the ointment again and squeezes some onto two fingers.

A warning bell rings in my head, telling me to stop him, to pull away and do it myself. Instead, my eyes focus on his hand. The second his fingers touch my skin, a shock wave travels up my leg. It stings so much, but I feel other sensations.

I tighten my fists and shut my eyes.

Fingers slide down my right thigh, over the cut. When he lifts my leg, a tiny sound comes out of me—one he doesn’t acknowledge. 

The warmth of his touch sends me reclining on the sofa, making my head swim, and the heat gathers low. My body reacts before my mind can agree. Exactly how it happened on New Year’s Eve. 

We were seated at the same table in that hall, in the Belcroft estate, thrilled and celebrating a tycoon turning 61—Dimitri’s father. 

Alexander had been stealing glances at me and secretly flirting the whole night. I had so much champagne and freedom. It was the first time my parents let me stay out late.

Only a seat separated us, but it was empty. Alexander slipped into the seat and brushed my thigh under the tablecloth to get my attention. I turned to him with a soft sigh. Sparkling eyes were already on me. His fingers trailed along my entire lap, raising my dress and sending a bolt of pure fire through my veins. He slipped a paper towel with his number into my palm. And I almost risked it all.

It was a moment that altered everything I knew about love and desire. For the first time in my life, I imagined following a man home. However, the night took a different turn.

“This cut needs a bandage…”

My eyes open to see him still meticulously attending to my wound, unaware that he’s reigniting that fire he started last year.

He takes out adhesive bandages. I watch him stick one first. The second one, he waits for me to lift my leg.

I hesitate, but lift my thigh to give him room. And something else happens.

He sticks it on, then caresses it with a thumb.

I sit up to stare, wondering if he’s just trying to make it stick, and I’m the one imagining things. But he does it again—slower, with more pressure.

Maybe I should have done this myself.

He lifts his eyes to mine, dark and brooding. And it hits me—he knows what he’s doing to me. I stiffen. 

He rises slowly, looming over me and blocking the rest of the room with his huge frame. “Lean against the sofa, Soph.” His voice is pure velvet. He leans down, his large hand takes my chin, and lifts it.

I stare into charming eyes as my fingers dig into the sofa, and my chest drums in alarm. I should stop this. My dad would kill me if he knew this was what my running away led me to, yet I slowly sit back and shut my eyes. 

I don’t want to get married; I’m mad at my dad; I’m stupid for getting caught, but I can’t deny that I’ve spent months unsuccessfully trying to forget this beautiful CEO.

The heat from his breath hits my face, and a yearning awakens in me, mixing with the ache of fear.

His lips touch mine, and the world tilts. He’s slow, tentative. Melding our lips together as if teasing.

My nails press deeper into the sofa, my body getting weightless. He seals my lips, shifting his hand behind my head. Soft lips skillfully coax mine open. I taste him—rich tobacco and dark luxury. 

He shifts a hand to my right bosom.

A gasp slips out of me, but he swallows it, teeth scraping my lip.

I let out a soft sound, reaching for him because I begin to tremble. I grab his collar with both hands, pulling him close without meaning to. 

He trails his kisses to my jaw, still working his hand.

I sigh, arching naturally, curling my fingers tight around the fabric of his shirt.

He drops onto the sofa beside me. His right hand leaves the back of my head, locking around my waist. In one seamless, powerful motion, I’m lifted off the sofa and pulled up into his lap.

Breathless, I stare into his eyes that started this inexplicable madness I feel. But he’s also breathing hard in my face, wide-eyed. His brows crinkle like he’s trying to decipher something in my head. He hesitates, seeming unsure of himself.

I gawk at his lips, reality creeping in slowly.

Maybe we’re going too fast—

But he brings his head close, taking my lips again.

A blaze ignites in my chest. It consumes me when his tongue brushes mine.

His hands roam, one pulling me close, the other finding the softness of my chest. 

“A-alex-xander…” I spiral in a wave of pleasure, eliciting soft, breathless sounds.

I touch him.

“Arms around my neck,” he urges.

My hands lift, curving behind his neck. At the same time, his strong arms pull me even closer.

I feel something against me. No. Two things. One is hard, pushing heat straight to my face. The other is… sharp?

His teeth drag my top lip, and his tongue slithers back into my mouth, distracting me. He pulls my lips, kissing me full and hard. No air.

Everything blurs. 

I feel his hands on my thighs, caressing, inching closer until they slip under my shorts. The intimate touch sends a jolt of reality through my haze.

With a ragged gasp, I grab his wrists.