Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Vicky
Alex is quiet for the ride back on the helicopter.
There’s a lot on my mind, too.
My hands won't stop trembling. I press them flat against my thighs, willing them still.
I keep seeing the blade against his finger, the blood welling so slowly, Van Wyk's face utterly indifferent to both. Amelia, so scared she’s shut down.
Alex's expression, emptied of everything, and that scares me more most of all.
I glance at him from time to time, but he ignores me, just sits staring into the space immediately before him, elbows on the arms of his chair, hands linked beneath his chin.
Was Van Wyk right? Is Alex angry with me for the offer I made?
“Alex?”
I wait; no reaction. My fingers find my engagement ring and twiddle it back and forth.
“You know why I said what I said, right?”
It’s like he doesn’t hear me.
“Alex?”
Nothing.
I bite my lip and stare miserably out of my window. He is blaming me.
Or… maybe while I was talking to Amelia, Van Wyk was telling him how interested in Fournier I was. I wouldn’t put it past that psychopathic murdering bastard.
Jesus fucking Christ.
So what now?
The helicopter drops us back at the lodge. Alex walks us back to our room, heads straight for his suitcase, and starts packing. It takes him all of a minute because his clothes weren’t spread out like mine are.
I suppose we’re leaving. It’s the middle of the afternoon. No one checks out in the middle of the afternoon, so it’s clear we had tonight booked as well. Change of plans, I guess.
He brushes past me to untie the ropes from the bed and bundles them up, not even looking at me.
My legs are unsteady. I focus on folding clothes I don't care about, because it's something to distract myself. It doesn’t really work.
He waits, standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back, while I give up making things tidy, throw my clothes back in my case, and zip it closed.
He still hasn’t said a word.
“Are you going to keep ignoring me?”
“Not here.”
Right.
I can’t really blame him for that.
As soon as I’m done packing, he takes our cases straight outside, not even waiting for a bellhop. He carries them across the parking lot, striding fast enough that I’m jogging along in his wake, and the goddamn helicopter’s still there. I figured they’d left.
I’m as done with Fournier and his trappings as I am with this place. I don’t ever want to see Montana again. I think I’ve developed a phobia for peaceful mountain and forest views.
At least the trip to Bozeman is faster than by car, and we’re walking into the terminal a half hour later.
I don’t try to talk to him here, not with everyone around.
There’s a direct flight to JFK, and Alex has my passport.
He books it all at the desk, the first-class fares eye-watering, and the next plane leaves in forty minutes.
We just make it. I don’t try to talk to him on the plane either, where we’ll be overheard.
He reclines his chair. Closes his eyes.
Then his hand reaches over and finds my leg.
I let out a breath and squeeze my eyes shut, his touch a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
The thin material of my stupid summer dress begins to rise.
He scrunches it higher and higher, until my cheeks begin to heat and I’m grateful there’s no one who can see.
“Alex…”
He ignores me, only stopping when his hand is resting on bare skin. His hand stills, palm on my thigh, fingers dipping between my legs, almost brushing my pussy. I flick the dress over his hand, restoring some small amount of my modesty, and anticipate the moment he begins to touch me.
But he doesn’t.
His hand stays there, unmoving, like he just wants contact, and not through my clothes.
Eventually, my heart rate calms, and I lay my hand over his. His skin is warm, even through the thin material of my dress. It’s his right hand, and it’s whole and intact. I can feel every one of his fingers beneath mine, and I shudder with relief.
His hand squeezes my thigh.
It’s a simple touch, but it restores everything that’s been missing since we left. Acknowledgment. Communication, of a kind. We still need to talk, but… I choose to read it as acceptance. Forgiveness.
A tear escapes, and I brush it from my cheek, wiping my hand on my dress. Alex doesn’t notice; his eyes are closed.
When my thoughts don’t dwell on Alex, they turn instead to Van Wyk and Amelia.
I try to think of other things, but it’s impossible.
Whenever I’m not picturing Amelia’s haunted gaze, I keep seeing that wickedly curved blade pressed against Alex’s finger.
The utterly calm acceptance with which he met that threat.
His willingness to sacrifice his finger to stop Fournier spending a night with me. With me.
A finger for a night? How is that even a thing?
And I’m wrong. Alex wasn’t calm, his acceptance was a front, his rage…
Murderous.
That’s the word. I know, instinctively, what passed through his mind. What’s still in there, because Alex doesn’t forget, or forgive.
The threat to me, the threat to himself. I wonder which pushed him more. Both, probably.
It doesn’t really matter; it’s the result that does.
Alex is going to kill them. Or try.
I watch him for a while. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not sleeping. He’s thinking.
What can Alex do with four hours’ uninterrupted thought? That’s a surprisingly scary question.
The flight crawls by, and his hand never moves.
With the two-hour time difference, it’s late when we finally land.
We’re off the plane first, then stand around in baggage claim with everyone else.
Alex slides his hand around my waist, beneath my coat, pulling me to him.
It’s almost… nice. Like we’re a normal happy couple.
We even get the looks; smiles of shared joy that vanish when they see Alex’s expression.
A double-take, a flick of concern to me, eyes drifting away, space around us.
The bags come eventually, and Alex walks us out. He gives the address of his Manhattan apartment, and we leave.
Taking the fucking Van Wyck expressway.
If Alex notices, he says nothing. But I know he’s noticed.
“We’re not going back to Westchester?” I ask, if only to think of something else. Anything else. The blade. Amelia's thin smile. Alex's empty eyes. Pick one; they're all equally uninvited.
“No.”
“My clothes and things are there.”
“Clothes in the suitcase.”
Easy access.
“No underwear,” I mutter, voice low to ensure the cabbie doesn’t hear it. I don’t want Alex killing him when we arrive.
“Good.”
That’s not his normal response. His normal response is, ‘buy some.’
I glance at him, and his mouth has curled on one side, smug and possessive. There’s even a hint of a dimple.
His hand’s not on my lap. I reach across, pick it up, lift the skirt of my dress, and place it on my thigh. The thin material goes over the top.
Alex doesn’t say anything or look at me. He gazes out of his window.
Then his hand slides an inch higher, his pinkie finger now tucked firmly between my thighs. He tugs, insistent, just enough to open my legs so they’re not pressed together. Another half-inch, and his finger’s nudging against my labia. The barest touch.
It’s his left hand, his dominant hand. Not the finger he was prepared to sacrifice to save me spending a night with Fournier. Which, if he hadn’t, is exactly where I’d be right now.
It’s a forty-five minute journey, and it crawls. I’m aware of his finger the whole damn way, and I can’t help the occasional twitch of my hips.
I no longer care where we’re going; I just want to get there.
“Are you hungry?” Alex asks as we near his apartment building.
“No.” Yes, but that’s not important right now.
“Tired?”
“Yes.” No, but I just want to get to bed. With him.
He nods. “We’ll be there in a minute.”
I know. I’ve been watching every street, every turn, for the past half hour, wishing them to go faster.
The taxi finally pulls up, and I’m out the door as soon as it clicks open. Alex fetches our bags, not waiting for the cabbie, and walks into the building without a word to him.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Good night, ma’am.”
Alex hears; his shoulders tighten. But he doesn’t turn around and punch the man, so I take that as a win. I follow him in.
The elevator ride is swift, but there’s tension between us, tangible in the air. I don’t know what it is. Sexual? Angst? The pending conversation we need to have? Which one, if so—the one where he’s going to try and kill people, or the one where he’s furious at me for offering myself to Fournier?
I bite at my lip, and it’s not a relief when the doors open.
Alex strides down the hallway, unlocks his apartment and enters, dropping the suitcases inside.
I step in after him, uncertain.
He’s on me before the door closes, shoving me against it, using my body to force it closed.
The impact at my back, mild pain. His mouth’s on mine in a bruising kiss, his hands pushing my coat from my shoulders.
He kisses like he’s just crawled out of a desert, hungry and desperate.
His tongue pushes in aggressively, seeking me, claiming me.
Alex’s hands find the top of my dress and he tugs sharply. The straps snap off, the zipper pulls into my back, then the seam rips. That’s fine; I don’t think I’d ever want to wear this one again.
He pulls down, and my breasts spill out. He bends, taking a nipple into his warm, wet mouth, tongue rubbing over the nub, and I gasp as I arch. His hand is on my other breast, clutching it, squeezing, finger and thumb finding that nipple and twisting. My gasp becomes a cry.
“On your knees,” he growls, pushing me down with one hand on my shoulder.
My legs buckle and I sink before him. It’s not the force; it’s his words. The moment. The rapid and sudden escalation of sensuality. The sheer need in his voice.