Chapter 9 Bella
BELLA
The car is too quiet.
The city slides past the windows in streaks of light, unfamiliar streets, unfamiliar signs.
Boston. The word keeps echoing in my head, wrong and unreal.
My daughter is curled against me, half-awake now, arms tight around my waist like she senses my fear.
I hold her close, breathing her in, grounding myself.
Something is terribly wrong.
The way we left the plane. The way Aleksander didn’t explain, didn’t slow down, didn’t let me think. We’re hours away from New York, moving fast through a city I don’t know, alone with a man who feels both protective and dangerous in equal measure.
I look at him.
He’s sitting beside me, shoulders tense, jaw set, phone in his hand. His thumb moves quickly across the screen as he texts someone, attention split, eyes flicking up every few seconds to take in the road, the mirrors, the driver. He looks calm, but it’s the kind of calm that feels coiled, ready.
“Who are you?” The question slips out before I can stop it.
He doesn’t answer right away. He finishes the message, locks the phone, then exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for a while. Still, he doesn’t look at me.
“I can’t go with you,” I say, the fear finally breaking through. My voice shakes. “Aleksander, I can’t. We’re in Boston. This isn’t my city. I don’t know anyone here.”
He turns then, finally meeting my eyes. “I’m taking you to New York.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I whisper. “I mean…like this. Leaving the airport. Running. This feels wrong.”
“You’re not safe alone,” he says simply.
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach drop. “We could have just caught the next flight,” I argue, even though I already know the answer. “Why did we leave the airport?”
He looks back toward the windshield. “Because it would’ve taken hours. Police questioning everyone on that plane. Immigration, security, statements, delays.”
“Someone was murdered,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he replies. He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t soften it.
The word sits between us, heavy and cold. Murder.
I shudder despite myself, pulling my daughter closer. She stirs, murmurs something sleepy, then settles again, trusting me completely. The weight of that trust makes my chest ache.
“You’re exhausted,” Aleksander says more gently. “Both of you are. You shouldn’t be answering questions right now. Especially not tonight.”
I stare at him, trying to reconcile the man who held me on the plane—who shielded my eyes, who kissed me like I was something precious—with the man who says murder so calmly, like it’s a fact of life.
My heart starts to race. “Aleksander…did you know that man?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His silence feels deliberate, measured.
“I’ll explain,” he says at last. “But not here. Not in a moving car. And not when you’re this tired.”
“That’s not fair,” I say, my voice breaking. “You keep telling me to trust you, but you won’t tell me anything.”
He turns to me fully now, and the intensity in his gray eyes makes my breath catch. “I’m not asking for blind trust. I’m asking you to let me get you somewhere safe first.”
Safe. The word sounds hollow and comforting all at once.
I shake my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “You don’t get to decide that for me.”
His voice softens. “I know. But right now, I’m not risking you getting pulled into something you don’t understand. Not with your daughter there. Not on my watch.”
That does it. The way he says it. The weight behind the words. I realize then that whatever Aleksander is, whatever he’s mixed up in, he’s already decided one thing with absolute certainty.
He’s not letting me go.
“We’ll leave for New York first thing tomorrow,” he says, like it’s already decided.
“No,” I say immediately, too fast. “Aleksander, we should just keep going. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t even want to be in Boston.”
He doesn’t argue right away. He just glances at me, then at my daughter curled against my chest. Her cheeks are no longer flushed, her breathing steadier now. I press my lips to her forehead without thinking.
At least her fever has gone down.
The fight drains out of me all at once. My shoulders sag. I hate that this is what tips the scale, but it does. I can be scared for myself later. Right now, she needs rest. Quiet. A bed.
Aleksander notices the moment I change my mind. He always seems to.
“Just for the night,” he says, softer. “You both need sleep.”
The car slows, then turns into a covered drive. A hotel rises in front of us, all glass and soft lighting, understated and expensive. The driver steps out first, opening my door.
Before I can protest, Aleksander is already there. “I’ll carry her.”
“I can—” I start, but he’s already lifting Lily carefully from my arms, like she weighs nothing, one arm supporting her back, the other tucked under her knees. She stirs, murmurs, then settles again, trusting him instantly.
My heart does something stupid and traitorous the moment I see them together.
Inside, everything is hushed and warm. Marble floors, low voices, the smell of polished wood. Aleksander checks us in with quiet efficiency, his hand resting lightly at my back as if it belongs there.
A key card slides across the desk.
In the elevator, I finally find my voice again. “I’d like a separate room.”
He looks at me, calm, unreadable, then a corner of his mouth lifts. “Don’t worry, darling,” he says easily. “I’ve booked the penthouse suite.”
The words land heavier than they should.
The elevator glides upward, smooth and silent. I watch the numbers climb, my mind racing, exhaustion pressing down on me from all sides. I don’t know if I should be relieved or more afraid.
All I know is that when the doors open and he carries my daughter inside, I follow.
Because tonight, I’m too tired to fight. And because despite everything, some part of me believes him when he says we’ll leave tomorrow.
I just don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring.
I glance at Aleksander again, and despite my best intentions, I feel that thrum in my chest again.
He carries Lily through the doorway with an ease that feels practiced, natural. He shifts her weight without waking her, murmurs something soft I can’t quite hear, adjusts the blanket so it doesn’t slip from her shoulder. She sighs in her sleep and curls closer to him like she belongs there.
Like she trusts him.
The sight hits me harder than anything else tonight. Harder than Boston. Harder than the murder. Harder than the way we ran from the airport like we were guilty of something unnamed.
Father and daughter.
The thought flashes through me before I can stop it, sharp and terrifying. My chest tightens, breath catching as if my body knows something my mind refuses to touch.
No.
No way.
He kneels to unlace her shoes, sets them aside neatly, pulls the covers up just enough to keep her warm. He stands there for a moment longer than necessary, watching her sleep.
I turn my back before he can see my face.
This is nothing, I tell myself. He’s good with children. That’s all. Plenty of men are. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
If he ever found out—
If anyone ever put those pieces together—
I swallow hard.
No way I can let that happen.
He joins me quietly in the living area, rolling up his sleeves, the tension of the night still in his shoulders. “She’ll sleep,” he says. “Fever’s gone.”
“Thank you,” I manage. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
He nods, then looks at me, really looks, eyes softening. “You should rest too.”
I hesitate, then nod, exhaustion finally winning. As I walk toward the other bedroom, I glance back once more.
He’s standing near the door to hers, just watching. Guarding.
My heart twists again, traitorous and aching.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, pressing a hand to my chest, breathing through the fear, the questions, the dangerous warmth blooming somewhere it has no right to be.
I stand there for a long moment with my back against the door, listening to the quiet hum of the suite, the distant city, my own heartbeat pounding too loud in my ears.
Get it together.
I move slowly, deliberately, like if I’m careful enough I can keep my thoughts from spiraling. I kick off my shoes, wash my face in the bathroom, grip the edge of the sink until the reflection staring back at me looks more like myself again. Tired. Scared. Still standing.
When I step back out, the lights in the living area are dimmed. Aleksander is on the phone, voice low, turned slightly away from me. He doesn’t stop talking when he notices me, just lifts a hand in a quiet acknowledgment, like he knows I need space.
I hover, unsure what to do with myself, then sink onto the edge of the couch. My body feels heavy, but my mind won’t slow down. Every image keeps replaying. The plane. The body. The way he shielded me. The way he carried my daughter like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I hate that my chest tightens again.
He ends the call and finally turns to me. “Everything okay?”
I nod automatically, then shake my head. “I don’t know. I think I’m just…overwhelmed.”
“That’s understandable,” he says. He keeps his distance, doesn’t sit next to me, doesn’t crowd me. I notice that too. Always controlled. Always watching.
Silence settles between us, thick but not uncomfortable. I can hear my daughter’s soft breathing through the open bedroom door. Safe. Asleep. Unaware.
Aleksander speaks again, quieter. “I meant what I said. We leave tomorrow. Early. Straight to New York.”
“And then?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He studies me, expression unreadable. “Then you decide what you want to do.”
I almost laugh. “You make it sound simple.”
“It won’t be,” he admits. “But it will be your choice.”
I search his face, trying to reconcile that promise with everything else I know about him. The power. The danger. The secrets layered so thick I can barely see the man underneath.