Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
ALEXANDER
I watch Lucas stir in his sleep on our bed, mumbling softly under his breath, his face buried into the pillow like he’s trying to disappear inside it. His arms are wrapped tightly around it, curling his whole body like he’s trying to hold himself together.
His curly blonde hair falls messily across his forehead, those soft strands brushing against his skin, and his freckles are faint shadows over his cheeks.
The way he looks, even like this, does something to me.
That face of his… that maddening, perfect face that’s somehow both delicate and sharp, boyish and ethereal, like the universe couldn’t decide which direction to go and just gifted him with both.
He looks so fucking beautiful even in his sleep that I forget how to breathe most times.
So beautiful, I forget how to think.
Every little thing about him wrecks me — the way his lashes flutter, the way his lips part just slightly, the way his brow furrows like he’s still fighting something in sleep.
He doesn’t know how much power he holds over me.
How his smile makes my fucking chest ache, how all I want is to get on my knees and worship him and tell him just how much I’d kill for him, how far I’d go to protect him.
How much I need him around just to breathe right.
I grind my teeth, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, as my mind flashes back to two days ago. The rage that still lives under my skin feels fresh again.
Tyler’s voice had been panicked and tight when he had called.
Anton had been asking me to check in on the progress of one of our construction sites with him, a new build just on the outskirts of the city. I was already halfway there when the call came. I didn’t even think. I had made Mike take a detour to the address Tyler had provided.
I sat in that car with every second feeling like a century, as I made calls to my men, and then to my family’s digital intel team because they would be the ones to trace everything about that fucker Oliver, and they got the job done.
Then I walked into that hellhole of a trailer
Oliver, standing there with a fucking gun aimed at Lucas.
And Lucas… sitting there. Still. Quiet. Holding it all in.
But the moment his eyes met mine, something shifted.
I saw it. That flicker. That breath.
The surprise in his eyes, but underneath it, the hope in them.
And it nearly broke me.
But I held it in. I had to. One wrong move, and I could’ve lost him. One second too fast, and he could’ve been ripped away from me. I couldn’t risk that.
Still, the calmness in his eyes… the steadiness, the strength, it made me proud.
It made me focused.
He stirs again in his sleep, slow and lazy, then lets out a quiet yawn, stretching one arm above his head, the other curling back into the sheets.
His lashes flutter open, his bleary, sleep-heavy eyes finally meeting mine.
There’s a pause — that tender, quiet moment where sleep and wakefulness blur, then he blinks slowly and props himself up on one elbow.
“What are you doing?” he signs, but also mouths the words, his lips barely parting.
He rarely speaks when he doesn’t have his hearing aid in.
He once told me that without it, he feels like his voice changes—like it’s too loud, too rounded at the edges, like he’s speaking underwater.
I told him I don’t see anything wrong with it.
But Lucas, being Lucas, can be very stubborn about anything.
“Just working,” I mouth back, my voice soft. There’s a laptop balanced on my thighs, propped against my bent knees, but truthfully, I’ve barely touched it in the last hour. Instead, I’ve been watching him sleep, all the while trying to hold myself.
I want to shut the laptop. Want to slide across the mattress, wrap myself around him, and wake him with kisses trailing down his spine, his neck, down to the parts of him that only I get to touch.
I want to make him arch and moan and beg softly in that breathy, broken way only he can.
I want to bury myself deep inside him and see just how much whimper I can pull out of him.
But I stay still, barely breathing, afraid that even blinking too loud might wake him.
Until now.
He gives a small “oh,” brows raised, still half-sleepy as he watches me with concern.
I snap the laptop shut, place it on the nightstand, and shift to face him fully.
“Come here,” I say gently, but I sign it too, letting my fingers move slowly and clearly so he can feel the words.
And as if he’s been waiting for that signal, he moves. Effortless. Familiar.
He climbs onto me with all the ease of someone who knows exactly where he belongs.
His thighs slide on either side of mine, knees folding neatly behind him as he straddles my lap.
I run my hands over his ass and pull him flush against me, pressing us together until I feel the warmth of him everywhere.
He gasps—just a little sound, but it makes my blood rush.
His arms loop loosely around my neck, his fingers curling into the back of my hair.
“You slept for only two hours,” I say as my hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt, skin meeting skin.
He watches my lips as I speak, then gives me that sleepy, drowsy half-smile that wrecks me every time.
“That’s enough for an afternoon nap,” he signs with slow, careful movements, as if making sure I catch every word.
I do. And I nod to show him so.
His smile widens, blooming across his face like sunlight through fog, and I swear I feel it, like warmth spreading through the coldest corners of me.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, brushing my thumb along the edge of his jaw. “I can make you something before we leave for my parents’ place.”
He bites his bottom lip, then gives a slight nod. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates. A frustrated little sound escapes his throat before he shifts off my lap slightly and reaches for his hearing aids on the nightstand.
I watch him quietly, the way his fingers move with practiced care, adjusting them over each ear. He blinks a few times, making sure they sit comfortably. When he finally looks back at me, I can tell he’s found the right balance.
“I’m hungry,” he says finally, his voice soft but steady, and signs it at the same time. It’s something he’s been doing a lot these past few weeks: speaking aloud and signing. He says it can help me improve.
“But,” he adds, “I need to save space for dinner at your parents’. Your mom said there’ll be a lot of Thai and Russian dishes.”
I smile, my heart warming at the excitement in his tone. “What else did she tell you?”
He rolls his eyes playfully. “I am not telling you what your mom and I gossiped about, Alex.”
The teasing in his voice is light, but the smile tugging at his lips is real, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across mine in return.
“Ah, I see how it is,” I murmur, leaning in, and before he can react, I cup the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss.
The moment our mouths meet, it’s like something breaks open between us.
He lets out a soft moan, melting against me, arms looping tight around my neck as the kiss deepens, hungry and breathless.
His lips part for me so willingly, so sweetly, and when our tongues meet, it sends a low burn straight down my spine.
He whimpers—just that soft, desperate sound he makes when he’s too far gone to pretend he doesn’t want more, and he shifts on my lap, grinding against me. I feel it. Every inch of his arousal pressed against mine. And fuck, I want it too. I want him.
But my hands fly to his waist, gripping tightly, stopping him from moving.
Still, we don’t break the kiss. His mouth clings to mine, like he’s trying to consume me. I bite down gently on his bottom lip, the way I know he likes, and he moans. He rocks against me again, but my hands tighten, holding him still.
That’s when he pulls away with a frustrated sound, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. His eyes meet mine, flushed and dark, annoyed and aching, like he’s trying to figure out why I keep stopping him.
And fuck, I want to explain it. I want to tell him I’m doing it for him, for us.
“You need to eat, Lucas,” I say, my voice coming out lower, rougher than I intended, tight with the pressure building in my chest and between my legs.
I adjust my position on the bed, trying to rein myself in before I pull him back into me and lose every ounce of restraint I’ve managed to hold onto.
“But—” he starts to protest, his voice soft.
“No buts,” I cut in, firmer now. I meet his eyes and make sure he sees how serious I am. “You need to eat. Then we get ready and go to the mansion.”
For a second, something flashes in his expression—something sharp and quick, like hurt. It cuts into me before I can brace myself. He tries to hide it, but I see it. And it guts me. I watch him clamp his mouth shut, nod once, then slowly pull off of me, his warmth disappearing with the distance.
And fuck, I want to pull him back. I want to bury myself in him and forget the world, let our bodies say everything our mouths can’t. But I can’t, not like this. Not right now.
I rise from the bed, trying not to look at the way he tugs down the hem of his shirt, not to acknowledge the sulking shadow cast across his face, even though he’s trying so hard to hide it.
It’s in the silence. The way his fingers twist together like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands now that they’re not on me.
We haven’t fucked since the incident with Oliver two nights ago.
I brought him home that Thursday night, and he crashed, slept throughout the night and half of yesterday.
And when he finally woke up, we talked—or tried to.
He apologized. God, he apologized so much.
Over and over, like he owed me something.
Like it was his fault, his world has been nothing but survival for years.
But it wasn’t the apology that stuck with me. It was what he didn’t say.