4. Alex #2
She stirs the sauce as though this is an ordinary evening.
As though she had not vanished for ten years.
A woman cooking dinner. A man returning home after a swim.
The beginning of an evening instead of the aftermath of a ten-year hunt.
As though my father is not dead and my brother does not still carry scars from the night she left us.
As if we are sharing a home rather than circling the ruins of one.
The domesticity of it makes me furious.
Belle glances over her shoulder.
The spoon stops.
“I didn’t know when you’d be back.” Her grip tightens around the handle. “Dinner needs another thirty minutes.”
Her voice is steady enough. Her hand is not.
“We need to talk.”
“We talked last night.”
“No,” I walk into the kitchen. “I talked. You avoided every question.”
She turns back to the stove. “I’m cooking.”
“Turn it off.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“Belle.”
She sets the spoon beside the stove and turns to face me. The island remains between us, a wide stretch of marble that gives us both the illusion of distance.
“What truth do you want tonight?” she asks. “The one you’ve already chosen?”
“The real one.”
“You wouldn’t recognize it.”
“Then tell me why you let my father die.”
The color in her face changes.
Pain flashes first, quick and unguarded, before anger sweeps over it.
“Go to hell.”
The words strike cleanly.
For the first time since I brought her here, she is not trying to make herself smaller. She is furious enough to forget that she is supposed to be afraid of me.
Good.
I come around the island.
Her shoulders pull tight, and her hands curl at her sides. She does not back away, though every muscle in her body looks prepared to run.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Belle—”
“You want a confession?” Her chin lifts as she steps toward me. “Fine. I killed your father. I murdered my uncle for his money, destroyed your family and disappeared because I’m exactly the monster you need me to be.”
“Stop.”
“Why?” Her voice wavers, but she forces it louder. “Isn’t that what you dragged me here to hear?”
“I brought you here for the truth.”
“You brought me here to punish me.”
Her eyes shine, but she blinks before the tears can fall.
“You don’t listen when I answer,” she continues. “You pull apart every word until it fits the story you’ve already decided is true.”
“Because your version makes no sense.”
“You don’t want it to make sense.”
The accusation catches deeper than it should.
“You need me guilty,” she says, quieter now. “Because if I’m not, you’ll have to admit what you’ve done to me.”
Anger surges up before I can examine why that frightens me.
I reach for the weapon I know will hurt her most.
“You are Mark Mitchell’s blood.”
Belle flinches.
“He took you and Liam in after your parents died. He raised you, protected you, and gave you everything.”
Her lips part, but no sound comes out.
“And you repaid him by killing him for the inheritance.”
The blood drains from her face.
I see the blow land, yet the rage that brought me into this kitchen keeps pushing.
“You took the money and disappeared. After all, what could a construction worker’s son offer you when you were the princess of a lumber empire?”
Silence drops over the room.
Belle stares at me as though I have struck her.
Her eyes fill so quickly that she cannot hide it. The first tear slips down her cheek, leaving a bright trail across skin that has gone white.
For one ugly second, satisfaction heats my chest.
I found the wound. I aimed correctly and watched the blade go in.
Then her breath catches.
A broken sound tears from her throat, and the satisfaction dies so quickly it leaves nausea behind.
“Belle—”
“Get out.”
She turns away and wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand, but another tear follows. Her shoulders begin to shake despite the effort she makes to hold them still.
I take a step toward her.
“Don’t.”
I stop, but not for long enough.
She grips the counter and bows her head as if she can hide the sobs by swallowing them.
“I said get out.”
I should listen.
Instead, I reach for her shoulder.
Belle spins and shoves both palms into my chest.
“Don’t touch me.”
The force drives me back half a step. When she pushes me again, I catch her wrists on instinct.
Her pulse pounds beneath my fingers.
For one suspended second, I hold her between us while she strains against my grip. Then I see what has replaced the anger in her eyes.
Fear.
Not the sharp excitement we once mistook for fury before pulling each other into bed. Not the familiar challenge that used to end with her mouth against mine.
She is afraid of me.
My fingers open immediately.
I step back and lift my hands.
“I’m not touching you.”
Her wrists fall to her sides.
The space between us is hers now. She can leave, lock herself in her room and refuse to speak to me again.
I will let her.
Belle takes one uneven breath.
Then her face crumples.
She catches the front of my shirt in both fists and presses her forehead against my chest.
The contact knocks the air out of me.
Her tears soak through the cotton, warm against my skin, while every tremor in her body passes into mine. I barely breathe, afraid that even the smallest movement might make her pull away.
Instead, her hands tighten in my shirt, dragging me closer.
That is when I finally put my arms around her.
One hand settles between her shoulder blades while the other cups the back of her head. I hold her carefully at first, waiting for her to stiffen or push away, but she leans deeper into me instead.
She fits beneath my chin exactly as she did ten years ago.
That should not feel like coming home.
I close my arms around her while she cries over wounds I opened because I knew precisely where to cut. This is what I wanted when I brought her here. I wanted to strip away her calm, make her hurt, and force her to carry some part of what she left behind.
I wanted proof that she had not walked away untouched. Victory should not feel like guilt grinding beneath my ribs.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into her hair.
The words leave before pride can stop them.
Belle goes still.
I am not sure which of us is more shocked.
She pulls back just far enough to look at me. Her lashes are wet, her cheeks streaked with tears, and her mouth trembles before she presses it closed.
My thumb follows the damp trail beneath her eye. I should remove my hand. Instead, I leave my palm against her cheek.
Her gaze lowers to my mouth.
Then she kisses me.
For one stunned heartbeat, I forget how to respond.
Her lips are soft and salt-wet against mine, tentative only for the first second before she grips my shirt and rises onto her toes.
She expects me to reject her.
I should.
Instead, ten years of restraint collapses all at once.
My hand slides into her hair. I angle her face and take control of the kiss, opening her mouth beneath mine.
The sound she makes tears through the last of my reason.
I kiss her harder.
Every question I meant to ask slips out of reach. Dad. The inheritance. Why she left. None of it survives the way she opens for me, then kisses me back like she has been starving too.
Her hands move from my shirt to my shoulders, holding on as I guide her backward. The counter meets her hips. I stop before pressing her against it and lift my head. Belle’s pupils are wide. Her lips are swollen from mine, and her breath comes quickly beneath the loose sweater.
She stares at me for half a second, then catches the back of my neck and pulls me down.
My mouth crashes into hers.
I kiss her until our breathing tangles, until she arches into me and the hand in her hair tightens. Her fingers drag through the damp ends of my hair, pulling just hard enough to send heat down my spine.
When I move to her jaw and then her neck, her head falls back.
Her pulse beats against my lips.
“Alex.” Her voice comes out breathless and impatient. The sound of my name in her mouth sends me straight back to Montana, to cold nights, tangled sheets, and Belle saying it exactly like that when she wanted more.
I drag my mouth lower, tasting the hollow above her collarbone, but Belle catches my face between her hands and pulls me back to her lips.
A rough sound leaves my throat.
I want to take my time with her. I want to relearn every inch of the body I have spent ten years trying to forget, discover what has changed and what still belongs to memory.
Belle has no interest in patience.
Her tongue touches mine, and blood rushes painfully into my cock. I grip her waist as she presses closer, her body finding mine as though a decade has not passed.
I lift her onto the counter.
Her legs part around my hips before either of us can reconsider, drawing me into the heat between them. Even through our clothes, the contact is enough to tear a groan from me.
Something shifts behind her.
Neither of us notices the cup wobbling near the edge of the counter until it hits the floor and shatters.
The crash rips us apart.
We both go still.
Her legs remain around my hips, my hands beneath the hem of her sweater, palms spread against the warm skin at her waist. Her mouth is red from mine; her eyes unfocused.
Reality crashes into us as sharply as the sound did. I step away so quickly that her hands fall from my shoulders. Belle blinks at me, confusion slowly replacing the hunger in her face.
“This was a mistake.”
Belle stares at me for a beat then the confusion vanishes. Hurt flashes across her expression before she seals it away.
“Got it.”
She braces one hand on the counter and starts to climb down. I reach toward her automatically, but she recoils before I can touch her.
My arm drops.
“Go to your room.”
Her eyes flash. “Stop ordering me around. I’m not a child.”
“No.” My voice is still rough from kissing her. “You’re not.”
Belle slides off the counter and pulls her sweater back into place. Her fingers shake, though every other movement is careful. She walks past me without looking back.