Chapter 34
ALENA
My phone buzzes, dragging me from sleep.
I blink into darkness, disoriented, head heavy with the kind of exhaustion that comes from crying yourself unconscious. What time is it? The room feels wrong—too dark, too quiet, like I've slept through something important.
The screen lights up my face. Oliver: I'm outside. Brought wine. Let me in?
9:47 PM.
Fuck. I slept all day.
Another buzz: Oliver: Please? I promise I'll behave.
I groan and push myself upright, every muscle protesting. I'm still in yesterday's underwear, hair a disaster, mouth tasting like something crawled in and died. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
I grab my robe from the floor and stumble downstairs, tying it as I go. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. The house is cold—colder than it should be—and the shadows in the corners seem thicker than usual. Watching.
I open the door.
Oliver stands on my porch looking like he stepped out of a cologne advertisement.
Dark jeans that fit just right. White button-down rolled to the elbows.
Leather jacket that probably cost more than my monthly mortgage.
Hair perfectly tousled. Smile devastating enough to make grown women forget their own names.
He holds up a bottle of wine in one hand—expensive, French, the label screaming wealth—and from behind his back, he produces a single black rose with a flourish.
"For you," he says, grin widening.
I stare at it. At him. At this absurd tableau of romantic gestures that feel like they belong in someone else's life.
"A black rose," I say flatly.
"Seemed appropriate." He steps closer, invading my space with the easy confidence of someone who's never been told no. "Horror writer and all. Too much?"
"Very."
"But you love it," he says, like it's a fact.
I take the rose because it's easier than arguing. "How nice."
The sarcasm doesn't land. Or maybe it does and he just doesn't care. He laughs—this bright, easy sound that fills the space between us—and steps inside without waiting for an invitation. Just walks right in like he owns the place.
"You look like you just woke up," he observes, already making his way to my living room.
"I did."
"It's almost ten PM."
"I'm aware."
He sets the wine on my coffee table and looks around, taking in the space with the casual assessment of someone used to evaluating property. "Nice place. Very… suburban."
"That was the point."
"Different from the Kensington flat Lucy mentioned." He picks up a book from the side table, examines it, sets it down. "Fresh start?"
I close the door and lean against it, suddenly exhausted all over again. "Yeah. That one had too many ghosts."
"Metaphorical or literal?"
"Both."
He laughs again—that same easy charm that probably works on everyone else. "You're fascinating, you know that?"
"I'm tired."
"Then let me wake you up." He uncorks the wine without asking, the pop echoing through the quiet house. Pours two glasses with practiced ease. Hands me one like we've done this a thousand times before. "To second chances."
I take the glass but don't lift it. Don't drink. Just stand there holding it like a prop in a play I never auditioned for.
"What are you doing here, Oliver?"
"I wanted to see you." He says it simply, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"You saw me last night."
"And I haven't stopped thinking about you since." He moves closer—not crowding, but definitely present. Definitely there in a way that makes the air feel thinner. "You walked away too fast. I didn't get to properly say goodnight."
"You kissed my cheek."
"That's not proper." His smile turns wicked, edges sharpening. "That's polite."
I take a drink. The wine is good—too good, the kind that slides down smooth and makes you forget you're supposed to be sober-ish. It warms my throat, my chest, but does nothing for the cold settling in my bones.
He sits on my couch, sprawls really, one arm along the back like he's posing for a photograph. Comfortable. At ease. "Come. Sit with me."
"I should probably get dressed—"
"You look perfect as you are."
I tighten the robe and sit on the opposite end of the couch, as far from him as the furniture allows. The leather is cold through the thin fabric.
He grins, clearly amused. "Afraid I'll bite?"
"Afraid you'll try."
"Would that be so bad?" He shifts closer, closing the distance I tried to create. Not touching, but close enough that I can smell his cologne—expensive, woody, nothing like the cigarettes and motor oil that used to cling to Drogo's skin.
"Oliver—"
"Alena." He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers lingering against my cheek. Warm. Gentle. Wrong. "I like you. I think you're incredible. And I think you're scared."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And that's okay." His thumb traces my jawline. "But you don't have to be. Not with me."
I pull back slightly, instinct more than intention.
He doesn't follow. Just watches me with those green eyes that probably see more than I want them to.
In the corner of the room, the shadows shift. I catch it from the periphery—dark shape moving where nothing should move, familiar and wrong all at once. The temperature drops another degree. My breath doesn't fog yet, but it will.
Oliver doesn't notice. He's too focused on me, reading my face like a book he's determined to finish.
"You're tense," he says softly, voice dropping into that practiced intimacy that probably works wonders in boardrooms and bedrooms alike. "Let me help."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." His hand slides to my shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle with just enough pressure to make me aware of how knotted I am. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
"I don't need—"
"Everyone needs." His other hand joins the first, both working my shoulders now with the kind of skill that comes from expensive massage therapists and yoga retreats. "You carry so much, Alena. The writing. The trauma. The weight of being you. Let me ease it. Even just for tonight."
It should feel good. His hands are warm, practiced, exactly the right amount of pressure.
He knows what he's doing. He's probably done this a hundred times with a hundred other women.
But it doesn't feel good. It feels like a virus invading a body.
Foreign. Unwelcome. Wrong on a cellular level that makes my skin crawl even as I sit still and let him touch me.
The shadows in the corner thicken, press closer, and for once—for the first time in two years—they feel more like home than this beautiful man on my couch.
"Better?" Oliver asks, still working my shoulders.
"Yeah," I lie, because lying is easier than explaining.
He smiles, pleased with himself, and leans in. His lips brush my neck—soft, teasing, the kind of touch designed to make women melt. I freeze instead.
"Relax," he murmurs against my skin, breath warm and intrusive. "I've got you."
His hands slide lower, down my arms to my waist, fingers pressing through the thin fabric of my robe.
I should stop this. Should pull away. Should tell him to leave and take his wine and his black rose and his perfect fucking smile with him.
But I don't. Because maybe Lucy's right.
Maybe I should try. Maybe this is what moving on looks like—letting someone else touch you, even when every cell in your body is screaming no.
Even when nausea rises in your throat at the thought of his hands going any further.
His mouth moves to my jaw, my cheek, hovering near my lips like he's waiting for permission he's already decided he has.
"You're so beautiful," he whispers, and I hate how practiced it sounds. How many times has he said those exact words? How many women have believed them?
I close my eyes. See Drogo's face. Fuck.
Oliver's hand slides under my robe, palm warm against my bare thigh.
His touch is confident, assured, moving with the kind of certainty that comes from never being refused.
"Is this okay?" he asks, but he's already moving higher, already assuming my answer.
"Yeah." The lie tastes like ash. His fingers trace patterns on my inner thigh—circles, lines, deliberate and calculated.
I hold my breath, willing myself to feel something.
Anything. The desire Lucy insists I should have.
The heat that's supposed to build when someone wants you.
But there's nothing. Just emptiness and the ghost of hands that aren't his.
Just the wrongness of his touch and the nausea building in my stomach.
He leans in and kisses me. It's technically good.
He knows what he's doing—the right amount of pressure, the perfect tilt of his head, tongue sliding against mine with practiced ease.
He's probably made dozens of women forget their own names with this exact kiss.
But I feel nothing. Just the wrongness of it.
The way his mouth doesn't fit mine. The way his touch doesn't ignite anything except the desire for him to stop.
His hand keeps moving, sliding higher, fingers slipping under the elastic of my panties.
I tense despite myself, every muscle locking up in protest. "Relax," he says against my mouth, like it's that simple.
Like my body will obey his commands. "I'll make you feel good.
" His fingers slide between my legs, searching, finding.
He starts to rub—gentle circles, the kind that should build pleasure, that should make me arch into his touch.
I fake a gasp instead. Arch slightly. Give him what he expects because it's easier than explaining why I can't respond.
Why I'm completely dry, why my body is rejecting him on every physical level.
But inside, I'm screaming. This is wrong. This isn't him. Get out. Get him out. GET HIM OUT.