Chapter 7 #2
Shaking my head, I turn away from the windows and head straight to the bathroom. My clothes. My shoes. I had left them on the floor last night, soaked and dripping. But as I enter the bathroom, I can’t find them.
Did he take them?
Just as I’m about to leave the bathroom, I catch a reflection of myself, my hair is a disheveled mess, and there are bags under my eyes. With a sigh, I take the sealed brush from the top of the bathroom sink and brush quickly, wash my face, then run a hand through my hair.
I walk back to the room and pick up my phone from the nightstand. Great, it’s off, even my hearing aid.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to leave the bedroom, my bare feet brushing against the cold floor.
Each step feels like trespassing. The space outside is no less overwhelming—high ceilings stretch above me, light spilling in from floor-to-ceiling windows that paint the room in soft shades of morning.
Everything is open, sleek, and almost painfully expensive.
Minimalist, but rich in ways I can’t name. It smells faintly of him.
Alexander.
The air itself feels heavier because of him, like the walls have memorized his presence. I keep walking, hands twitching at my sides, chest tight. The penthouse is too quiet, too big. A place I don’t think I belong. A place someone like me shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe in.
And then I see him.
He stands behind the black marble counter of the kitchen, a steaming mug in his hand.
He’s shirtless, his broad shoulders catching the pale light that filters through the windows.
Muscles shift under his skin as he lifts the cup to his lips.
His left arm is covered in a sleeve of ink, with dark lines crawling down to his wrist, while his right arm only bears a double black band, thick and stark against his skin.
His hair is tousled, a few strands falling over his forehead, he looks like he just rolled out of bed, and yet he doesn’t look tired.
like something out of a dream. His skin catches the morning light in a way that makes me think—ridiculously—that it’s glowing.
My throat tightens. I can’t look away.
He’s the most intimidatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen.
And he’s staring right at me. Those piercing blue eyes pin me in place, sharp and unrelenting, as if he’s been waiting for me to step out.
His silence is loud, louder than the faint ticking in my head.
He studies me, gaze slow, deliberate, unreadable.
Then his lips move.
“Good morning.”
I don’t have my hearing aids in, but I don’t need them. His lips are easy to read, the words smooth, effortless.
I don’t respond.
My body is frozen, my pulse loud against my ribs. I feel so small standing in the middle of this place that belongs to him. Luxurious. Quiet. Untouchable. Just like him.
He tilts his head slightly, still watching me. Waiting.
My fingers knot in the hem of the shirt I’m wearing, trying to ground myself.
I should say something. Anything. But the words catch in my throat, tangled with nerves, fear…
and something else I don’t know how to name.
Finally, he exhales, low, steady, and taps a notebook lying on the counter. My eyes flick to it instantly.
“There’s a book and a pen here, Lucas.”
My feet hesitate before obeying, like the rest of me doesn’t trust this moment. Still, I cross the room. Every step toward him feels both wrong and inevitable, like I’m walking willingly into gravity.
The notebook is cool under my fingertips when I flip it open, the pen heavy in my hand. My chest tightens as I hover over the blank page. A hundred questions are burning through me, but only one manages to bleed onto the paper.
Where am I?
It’s the dumbest question I could ask, but it slips out anyway.
He leans against the counter, eyes lowering briefly to the page. When he looks back up, his expression hasn’t changed.
“My home.”
I figured that much.
Why am I here?
Alexander’s brows lift slightly before he sets his coffee down on the counter.
“You came with me, Lucas. Willingly.” His gaze doesn’t waver. He’s looking at me too intently, and I feel it like static crawling under my skin. Yes, I know that, but it’s not an answer. Not really. My fingers tighten around the pen, frustration biting into my chest.
It’s getting harder to look at his stupidly tempting mouth forming those unhurried words as I read his lips.
I wasn’t thinking.
I manage to scribble. He glances down at the page, then back up at me. This time, his look is flat, bored, like I’m amusing him and irritating him all at once. He doesn’t reply.
I press harder against the page. Where are my clothes?
“I picked them up from the bathroom,” he says, “I took care of them.”
I pause, pen hovering. Took care of them? The words stick in my throat. Fuck he’s seen my briefs… I feel a blush creeping up, but before I can write anything else, he turns, walking to the massive kitchen fridge, and a gasp almost leaves me.
Christ… Why the hell is his back so toned?
His back muscles flex as he moves, lean and strong, and his waist—God, his waist has to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
He pulls out a bowl, sets it down, then slides it toward me with a quiet push across the counter.
“Eat this while I make breakfast.”
I blink at him, the words I just read from his lips slamming into me in a way they shouldn’t.
Oh, Dear heavens, why do I want to hear his voice right now, his morning voice…
what would it sound like? I have never been so desperate for something I can’t have.
I absolutely hate myself for thinking this way; in fact, I should be ashamed of myself.
I glance down at the bowl. Slices of banana, blueberries, and strawberries lay neatly over yogurt, the colors sharp against white. Beautiful. Too carefully arranged, too tempting.
But my chest tightens, and I shake my head
I want to leave.
I write quickly, shoving the notebook forward.
His jaw ticks as he reads it. For a second, silence presses between us like a weight. Then his eyes flick up, heavy and searching, like he’s peeling me open without touching me.
“I’m making breakfast,” he says simply. “And you’re going to eat.”
I feel his words land heavily, final, and it makes me stiffen.
I set my pen ready to argue—but my stomach betrays me. Loudly. I know it’s loud, because when I risk a glance up, there’s the faintest smirk tugging at his lips before he hides it behind his mug.
Heat surges up my neck. My ears burn. I snap the notebook shut like that’ll cover my embarrassment.
“Sit,” he says, nodding to the stool by the counter. I feel the command in his tone even though I can’t hear it. It’s calm, but there’s something under it that makes me move before I think. “I’ll make it quick.”
My chest flutters uneasily. Every nerve screams I should refuse, but my hands are cold, my body tired, and the smell of fresh strawberries taunts me.
I sit. Slowly.
He watches me but says nothing else as he turns to the cupboards.
And that’s when it hits me. I don’t feel afraid, and I don’t know if that makes this better or worse.