Chapter 4. Still Under His Spell

Sophia’s POV

“It’s a guest bedroom.” He says, rolling the strap of my purse in his grip. 

I stare at my purse, mouth 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, all I have left are inside the purse.

“Sophia?”

My eyes lift to his. I close my mouth quickly and hold his dark gaze. It softens, confusing me.

“You can use the bathroom here. It has everything you’ll need for a bath…”

“A bath?”

“Or a shower…” He adds, letting go, and 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 get you something to wear.”

I nod, raking a trembling hand through my hair.

When he gets to the door, I call, “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.” He says, deadpan.

“I’m-I’m not going to run away.”

“I know… You can’t.”

I swallow my next words, my neck tightening.

He walks out and closes the door.

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

What have I gotten myself into? What have my parents done?!

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

His bedroom? Is he going to sleep with me?

Oh my god.

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 just wear this for now. This…” he holds something else 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 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 branch from the tree 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 while my heart drums.

I locked the door, but this is his house.

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.

Now cleaned, I put on the boxer shorts first, then my bra, and his shirt. It swallows me whole, becoming a short dress. Next, I carefully wear my contact lenses. I’m hyperopic and not allowed to talk about it.

I grab my dirty clothes and exit the room.

The living room is empty. I stroll in, giving myself a little tour with my eyes.

Everywhere looks like him—clean, tasteful. Expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows, an immaculate view of the city, diamonds; I’m almost swallowed up in the midst of it all.

“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, beautifully falling over his eyes. He’s clothed in all black—a loose buttoned-up shirt and matching pants. My purse is still in his grip.

He drops it on the coffee table.

“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. 

He pulls up his sleeve, absentmindedly, then grabs the first-aid box, but I catch a glimpse of a red tattoo just before his sleeve falls.

My eyes spread.

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

He has a tattoo?

Slowly, I sit on the ivory sofa, noting how my pulse beats faster.

He lowers himself before my knees, dropping the first-aid kit on the floor. His eyes are on the ground as he takes things out of the box. 

He lifts his head now, eyes on my legs.

I stare at the little, red cuts on my thighs, wondering if they’ll sting or if I’ll feel something else.

He slowly presses an antibiotic ointment on his finger and brings it to my leg.

I wince, folding my fists on the sofa.

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. How is he so perfect?

“Let me see the other one.”

My skin starts to tingle. 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 presses it onto two fingers.

A voice whispers in my head to stop him. To do it myself. Instead, I shut it down quickly, focusing on his hand.

The second they touch my skin, heat sparks. 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. 

I find myself reclining into the sofa, allowing my head to swim, allowing the heat to gather 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, joyous and celebrating a tycoon turning 61—Dimitri’s father. 

I’d been stealing glances at Alexander the whole night. He started reciprocating and flirting. 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 crossed it and brushed my thigh to get my attention. I turned to him with a soft sigh. Sparkling eyes were already on me, hands still caressing. He wrote his number on a paper towel, passed it to me, 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. Whatever the consequence, I was ready to suffer it. But 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 driving me nuts.

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.

My pulse skitters. 

He lifts his eyes to mine, dark and brooding.

And it hits me—he knows what he’s doing to me. I stiffen. Goosebumps form on my skin.

He rises slowly.

“Lean against the sofa, Beautiful…” his mouth drips honey.

He leans down, 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 is what my running away led me to, yet I slowly sit back and shut my eyes.

The heat from his breath hits my face, and a yearn 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. Pressing. My insides tumble down. 

Soft lips coax mine open. I taste him—he lets me. He claims, unrestrained yet skilled. 

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 trembling. 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, lifting me off the sofa. In a flash, I’m pulled up into his lap.

Breathless, I stare at him, body shaking. I stare into those 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.

I gawk at his lips, reality creeping in slowly.

He hesitates, seeming unsure of himself, but he brings his head close, taking my lips again.

A sudden 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 on 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, 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.

My senses fly awake before I lose myself.

I gasp, grabbing his wrists.