Chapter Nine
Alexander
Her skin is impossibly soft beneath my hands, the water swirling pink as I gently wipe the blood from her arms, her chest, her face.
She sits between my legs, her back pressed to my chest—warm and trembling, her breath feathering over my forearm.
I wrap my arms around her waist, not too tight, and she grabs my wrists, holding them there, desperate for something solid.
I’m anchoring her to the present, but truthfully, she’s anchoring me just as much.
She’s silent for a long time before she finally whispers, “Why am I here, Alex? Why did you come back for me?” Her voice is so small, so lost; I want to turn her around and see her eyes, but all I can do is hold her tighter, my chin resting on her damp hair.
I take a shaky breath, letting my hands splay wide across her stomach, wanting her to feel every ounce of care I have for her.
“Because I couldn’t breathe knowing you were hurting.
Because I can’t stand the thought of you being alone, or afraid, or touched by anyone but me.
I’d burn down the world before I let anyone hurt you again.
You’re it for me, Ayla. You’re the only thing that feels right.
I know it sounds insane—but I mean every word. ”
She shivers against me, and for a second, I feel her fighting a war inside herself. “Then why did you leave?” she whispers, barely audible. The pain in her voice nearly destroys me.
I squeeze her gently, letting her guide my hands up as she clings to me, pressing my palms flat to her ribs.
“I never wanted to leave you. That night, after the club—outside your building—I saw that bastard touch you, and I lost it. I lost myself, Ayla. I beat him until the cops dragged me off. I was gone before I could say a word. Every day in that cell, all I could think about was you, and how much I hated myself for not being there. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
She goes quiet, tucking her chin down, her fingers still clutching my arms as if she’s afraid I’ll vanish. Then, softly: “I saw the ambulance, you know. That night you disappeared. I didn’t even think about it until now. I thought I was going crazy, waiting for a text, anything.”
I dip my head, pressing my lips to her shoulder, my voice cracking. “You’re not crazy, Ayla. You were hurting. I’m here now. I’m not leaving again. Not ever.”
She lets out a trembling breath and finally leans into me.
I wait, not moving, letting her set the pace—this is her choice, her moment, and I’m here only if she wants me.
At first, she’s silent, and panic claws at my chest—am I pushing too far?
But then, quietly, she takes my hands from her stomach and guides them up, pressing them to her breasts.
Her back is pressed to my chest, her hair damp and warm against my jaw, so I can’t see her face—only feel the shiver of her breath, the way she presses into my touch. She leads, and I follow.
Every muscle in my body is tight with restraint.
I keep my hands gentle, letting her guide me, letting her choices tell me what she needs.
When her hands close over mine, urging me to squeeze, I do—but only as much as she asks.
She arches back, a gasp escaping her lips, and for a moment the world shrinks to just this: her trust, her body, her choice.
I drag my thumbs in lazy, teasing circles over her nipples, feeling them pebble and tighten beneath my touch.
She shudders, her back slick against my chest, her breath catching sharp and desperate.
As I roll each stiff peak between my fingers, another gasp spills from her.
The steam curls around us, the water lapping at her thighs as I pull her a little closer, my cock pressed hard against her lower back, throbbing with want.
But I don’t push. I let Ayla lead. I let her decide how much she wants, how far she wants to go.
In this moment, I’m only here to follow.
I graze my mouth along the curve of her neck, tasting the beads of water on her skin, breathing her in.
My hand slides down, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of her stomach.
I pause at her hip, giving her every chance to change her mind.
She shifts, guiding my hand lower, her own fingers wrapped around my wrist, her thighs parting wider beneath the water.
I let her guide me—matching her pace, letting her show me what she needs right now.
My fingers slip between her legs, the heat and slickness making me groan low in my throat.
I circle her clit with slow, gentle pressure, feeling her hips jump and her breath stutter.
She’s in control—moving my hand, pressing her body back into mine, guiding my touch to where she needs it most. I notice immediately that she no longer has any jewelry in.
She lets out a soft, broken moan, head falling back on my shoulder, and I let her take as much as she wants, never pushing further than she asks.
“Just like that?” I murmur, my voice thick with hunger, my lips brushing her ear.
She whimpers, “Yes. Don’t stop.” Her whole body is trembling, but her hands are sure, keeping mine exactly where she wants them.
Her thighs quake, her breath comes in frantic, shattered bursts, and I can feel her orgasm cresting, a tidal wave building beneath my hand as I follow every signal she gives—every push, every gasp, every whispered plea.
When she breaks, she cries out, her body arching, water splashing over the edge of the tub.
I hold her tight, whispering, “That’s my girl,” into her ear as goosebumps race across her skin and her body goes soft and limp in my arms—all of it because she let herself take what she needed, at her pace, her way.
I guide her carefully out of the tub, supporting her as the water sluices off her skin, and lead her into the shower.
The bath was just for her comfort, to help her relax.
The spray is warm, steady, and I take my time, running gentle hands over her arms, her back, her hair—rinsing away every last trace of blood and fear.
She leans into me, trusting and quiet, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but full of a fragile relief.
I reach for the shampoo, massaging it into her hair, letting my fingers work slow circles against her scalp until she sighs and relaxes completely against my chest.
When we’re finally clean, I wrap her in a big towel and press a soft kiss to her temple.
I find her a faded, oversized T-shirt—one that hangs off her frame and brushes the tops of her thighs.
She looks small and impossibly beautiful in it, her skin still dewy and pink from the heat.
While she sits curled on the edge of the bed, I gather her dirty clothes and toss them into the washer, making a mental note of her size and how she looks in my shirt—determined to buy her a few things of her own.
She isn’t going anywhere—not for a while.
But even as I move through these gentle, almost domestic rituals—wrapping her in soft cotton, tidying the aftermath, making sure every detail is tended to—the reality of what I’ve done presses in, heavy and unavoidable.
There’s a trail of blood and chaos waiting for me, a reckoning I can only postpone for so long.
Derek’s silence is a ticking clock. I have days, maybe less, before the world starts asking questions I can’t answer.
But for now, I let myself focus on Ayla—how small she looks curled up in my bed, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks.
She’s so spent from everything that’s happened, she doesn’t even resist when I ease the blanket up around her shoulders.
I settle beside her, stroking her hair, brushing my lips to her forehead—a silent promise that, tonight at least, she’s safe.
I stay there until her breathing deepens, until she finally drifts into sleep, and only then do I let myself think about what comes next.
When I walk back into the living room, Dean and Zayn are waiting for me, their expressions hard and expectant. The air is thick with shock and adrenaline, the silence broken only by the faint hum of the washer and the distant sound of Ayla’s breathing from the bedroom.
Dean’s eyes bore into me, searching for answers he’s not sure he wants. “What the fuck did you do, Alex?” he demands, voice low and tight.
I drop heavily into a chair, running a hand through my hair. “I got her out,” I say, my voice flat. “When I got there, he was on her—inside her. I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing. Not again.”
Zayn’s voice is a growl, rough with disbelief. “That still doesn’t explain all the fucking blood, man. Did you lose it? You know how risky this is, right? You just got out, and now you’re going back in for murder?”
Dean throws up his hands. “Jesus, Alex. Do you have any idea what kind of heat this is going to bring? You realize what this means? We have to disappear—her, the body, everything. The cops, the neighbors—shit, everyone’s going to be looking for answers.”
I meet their gaze, refusing to flinch. “He deserved worse. I cut his dick off, though if that helps.” My words drop like a stone, heavy with finality and not a shred of remorse.
They stare at me in silence, eyes wide at the confession, the gravity of what I’ve done settling over all of us like a storm about to break. Zayn’s fists clench. “So what? We dump the body in the river? You want to torch the whole house and hope nobody asks questions? Fuck, Alex.”
Dean shakes his head sharply, pacing the room. “No, no, that’s reckless. You want us to get caught? We need something clean, something no one can trace. We don’t have a lot of options, Alex.”
For a moment, it’s just the three of us, tension stretching like a live wire. Then Zayn snaps his fingers. “Wait—what about that guy you know, the funeral home guy?”