Chapter 2
ALENA
Oh, my Lord, he chews with his mouth open. I see everything. I hear everything. Food tumbling like wet cement.
And all I can think is: Drogo would never chew like this.
But no. Here I am, trapped with Mr. Fork-Feeder, when I should still be celebrating. The presentation this morning went well—Drogo's horror theme park is going to be spectacular. Watching him design that park, seeing his vision come to life through my stories? That was magic.
Too bad the after-party included this disaster of a date.
Lucy said dating would do one of two things: make me forget my feelings for Drogo, or trigger him to actually make a move.
I want the second one. God, I want the second one so badly it hurts.
I've been in love with Drogo since the night we met—seventeen years of wanting him, aching for him, pretending I don't notice the way his hands linger on my skin or how his eyes track every man who gets too close. Seventeen years of this exquisite torture.
So here I am, suffering through bad dates, hoping one of them will finally push him over the edge.
Except this date isn't just bad. It's a fucking catastrophe.
Now he's offering me food with his fork—like he wants to feed me in public. What is wrong with him? This isn't a romantic movie. Eat your damn food.
"No, no... thank you." I twist my mouth into something that might pass for patience. He looks confused—like I'd just refused the most human thing on Earth.
"I'm allergic to asparagus."
I'm allergic to bullshit, but whatever.
He grins; I return it.
Before the food arrived, I thought he was handsome—green eyes, brown hair, sharp cheekbones, fit. Now? I'm not sure I'll make it to dessert without losing my mind.
"You know," he says, leaning back like he owns the place, "you're a lot prettier in person than in your photos. The tabloids don't do you justice."
"How kind." I take a sip of wine, wishing it was arsenic.
"I mean, I thought you'd be more... mysterious. You know, the whole 'horror writer' thing. But you're actually pretty normal."
Normal. Right. Because the scratches that appear on my skin when I miss deadlines are totally normal. Because the dreams that turn into bestselling novels are just everyday occurrences.
"I contain multitudes," I say dryly.
He doesn't catch the sarcasm. "I bet you do." His eyes drop to my chest. Subtle.
"So listen," he continues, leaning forward, "I was thinking after dinner, we could skip the whole 'getting to know you' thing and just go back to your place. I want to see where the magic happens, you know?"
I blink. "The magic?"
"Your bedroom." He grins like he's just offered me the moon. "Where you write. Where you... do other things."
Oh.
"I think I'm not feeling well," I say, already reaching for my purse. "I'll pay for everything and head home."
He grabs my hand. His fingers are damp from his wine glass.
"You can pay, but you're not leaving. We have a full night planned."
I pull my hand back. "I don't recall agreeing to a full night."
"Come on, don't be like that." His grip tightens before I can fully extract myself. "I took time out of my busy schedule for this. The least you can do is make it worth my while."
"Make it worth your while?" I repeat slowly, letting each word drip ice.
"Yeah. I mean, you're Alena Lupus. The mystery woman. The one everyone wants but can't have." He leans closer, breath sour with wine. "But I'm here. And you said yes to this date. So..."
So what? So I owe you something?
I should stand up. I should throw my wine in his face and walk out. I could handle this myself—I've handled worse.
But something stops me.
Lucy's voice in my head: Trigger him to make a move.
And suddenly, I'm not leaving. Not yet.
Because this asshole deserves to meet Drogo tonight.
"I have to visit the bathroom for a moment," I say sweetly.
He barely looks up from his plate. "Sure, babe. Don't take too long."
Babe.
I slip away and call Drogo. It rings. And rings. I suppose I'll have to deal with this guy on my own after all. I'm about to hang up when he finally picks up.
"What?"
"I want those drinks tonight."
"I'm in the middle of something."
"How long will it take?"
A woman's voice floats through the phone—sweet, sultry, trying too hard to sound like a siren. Drogo...
My chest tightens. Of course he's with someone. Of course.
"How bad is it?" His voice shifts, edges sharper.
"He tried to feed me with his fork. Called me 'babe.' Grabbed my hand when I tried to leave. Oh, and apparently I owe him sex because he took time out of his busy schedule."
Silence. I hear sheets shift and a soft grunt...
"Where are you?"
"Covent Garden."
"Oh, you're such a cliché."
"I didn't pick the restaurant."
"You picked the man."
"Fuck you."
I want to tell him I don't feel safe with this date, but I know if I do, he'll show up on his Ducati, storming the place. I'm in the papers too much already. I don't need that kind of scene.
"I'll be there in twenty."
My heart settles back into place the second he says he's coming. Drogo—my safe space, my pill, my everything I'm not allowed to have.
I take a breath and head back out.
Twenty minutes. I can survive twenty minutes.
My date is still chewing when I sit down. Mouth open. No shame.
"Everything okay?" he asks, not really caring.
"Perfect," I lie.
He launches into a story about his restaurant, how he's "revolutionizing British cuisine," and I nod, smile, let my mind drift.
Back to the night I met Drogo.
I was crying on a bench in Hyde Park. He was drunk—like a fairy stumbled in from nowhere—sat down on the same bench.
And from the shock of seeing him, I just stopped crying.
I stared at him. Tall, fit but not massive.
Shoulders that filled doorways, hands that could sketch cathedrals or snap a neck with the same steady grip.
Blue eyes, dark hair. Handsome then, but magnetic now. Charming. A sin.
"...and that's when I realized, the secret to a perfect béarnaise is—"
I blink. My date is still talking.
"Fascinating," I murmur.
I think I stopped crying because Drogo was that beautiful—even drunk and stupid.
But he didn't notice me for a solid ten minutes. Then he turned, looked at me, smiled, said "wow," and promptly passed out.
"Are you even listening?" My date's voice cuts through.
"Of course. Béarnaise. Revolutionary."
He narrows his eyes but keeps talking.
I couldn't leave Drogo that night. I couldn't lift him. And I didn't have a phone—because at that moment, I was broke and hopeless. Hence, the crying in public spaces.
I stayed by his side for five hours.
My date signals the waiter for more wine. I check my phone. Ten minutes since Drogo said he'd come.
Ten more to go.
When Drogo finally woke up, I was a little angry. It was cold, and I didn't have a proper jacket, so I was shaking.
"You prick." That was the first thing I ever told him before I stood up to leave the dark, scary Hyde Park.
I'll never forget it. He grabbed my hand, stopped me, and gave me his jacket. Then he turned and said, "I'm buying coffee."
"...so I told the supplier, if you can't source organic, don't bother—"
My date is relentless.
After that coffee, we never spent a day apart. He relaxed me and stressed me at the same time. His beauty stressed me. His strength. You could see how confident he was—like he could set the world on fire if he wanted to.
"The thing is, you have to put it in the pan skin down first."
Oh my God. He's holding a piece of fish in my face again.
"The taste comes from below..."
I force a smile. Fifteen minutes now.
Drogo was also a kid of the orphanage. Maybe that's why we fit so well.
But at the time, I met him as a stray kid—kind of homeless, crashing on any couch that would host him.
I didn't know there were worse scenarios than mine.
But there he was. The only money he made came from fighting in underground pits and selling drugs.
He even considered becoming a gigolo. Yeah, times were that bad.
But we stuck together. We didn't have anyone else.
"You know what pairs perfectly with sea bass?" my date asks.
"Silence?" I mutter.
"What?"
"White wine. Obviously."
His father was a married German man who abandoned his English-Norwegian, beautiful, innocent mother while she was pregnant with Drogo. That broke her. She went from innocent to sinister. She took pills to kill herself—and him—in an act of despair. She was dead by the time Drogo was born.
My chest tightens just thinking about it. How much pain shaped him. How he survived it all and still became... him.
"So, about that nightcap at your place—"
"Not happening," I say flatly.
Eighteen minutes.
To be honest, I didn't think Drogo would make it out of that life. But he was amazing at fighting. He made enough money to put himself through university and became an architect. Master's, PhD, all of it.
Three architecture awards were handed to the company he started—just in its first year.
Hard to believe this man in bespoke tailoring once considered selling himself. He never had to—violence paid better. But he turned that violence into something beautiful.
My date's hand moves to my knee under the table.
I remove it. "Don't."
He laughs. "Playing hard to get?"
"Playing 'leave me the fuck alone.'"
Nineteen minutes.
Almost there.
"That's true, my friend."
A big hand from behind me grabs my shoulder.
Drogo.
I could have hugged the hell out of him in that moment.
"I should apologize, but I won't—for stealing your date."
My date is speechless. Honestly, that's fine with me—as long as I'm out of it.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" my date sneers, acting like the whole damn room belongs to him.
I'm ready to sit back and let Drogo handle this mess. No man ever stood a chance with him. Hell, Drogo would probably smile if someone put a gun to his head.
"What do you think I'm doing?" Drogo's voice is calm but heavy—every word like a warning.