58. Chapter 58
Chapter fifty-eight
Alex
It’s been seven months since Elinor Allister was arrested.
Once the news broke—once money trails froze and names started surfacing—the wizard behind the curtain vanished.
Completely. Every channel went dark. No chatter, ripples, or contracts.
Whoever was pulling strings shut the whole operation down the second exposure became a possibility. We lost every connection overnight.
Reese is still watching, of course. He always is. Quietly monitoring for reappearances, anomalies, patterns that don’t belong. But so far—nothing. Silence. And in my world, silence usually means someone decided the risk wasn’t worth it anymore.
Seven months is long enough for habits to form. Long enough for silence to feel comfortable instead of suspicious. Long enough for me to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop. And in that same span of time, I’ve had the best stretch of my life.
Lina and I fell into a rhythm so natural it caught me off guard. No forced conversations, or negotiations about space. Just an easy, steady unfolding of us.
I’ve been staying with her—and as time went on, it stopped seeming like I was visiting someone else’s life and started seeming like I was home.
But getting there wasn’t effortless. It took time and patience.
I noticed the things she didn’t say before I noticed the things she did.
The way she’d stretch on her toes for something out of reach instead of asking me for help.
The way she’d struggle quietly, jaw set, determined to handle it herself.
Sexy without trying. Cute without knowing it. Independence somehow appeared innate.
I’d step in eventually—hand it to her, steady her without commentary—and she’d thank me like help was a favor instead of a given.
Letting me help didn’t come naturally to her. And I understood why.
The house told its own story. Furniture she’d put together alone, barely holding on for dear life.
Chairs that wobbled. Shelves hanging by stripped screws and faith.
Curtain rods with so many old holes behind them from dozens of reinstallations.
I didn’t see incompetence—I saw a woman who never waited around for someone else to show up.
So I fixed things. Quietly. Tightened bolts. Patched walls. Anchored what she tried to make permanent on her own. I didn’t do it to erase her effort—but to reinforce it. To make sure the things she built can last.
Mornings together. Coffee before words. Gym sessions that turned competitive in the best way. Late nights talking about everything and nothing—or lying side by side doing absolutely nothing at all, content in the quiet.
It’s a kind of intimacy I didn’t realize I was missing.
Living together means she’s suddenly woven into every part of my day, and I can’t get enough of it. Or her.
Every excuse becomes an opportunity to touch her. A hand at the small of her back as I pass. Pulling her into my lap when she’s trying to read. Stealing kisses while she’s making coffee. Finding reasons to linger when she’s getting ready for bed.
We wrap ourselves around one another like we’re each other’s oxygen.
I can’t seem to get enough of her laugh. Her voice. The way she absentmindedly tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. Or the way she directs her eyes toward me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
And I definitely can’t get enough of sharing a bed with her every night.
Most men probably get used to having the woman they love around all the time. If anything, the opposite has happened to me. The more time I spend with Lina, the more impossible it becomes to keep my hands off her and stay away.
Everything about her draws me in. Even when she’s not trying. Especially when she’s not trying.
And still—there were moments I could feel her bracing.
Before plans with friends. Before nights out. Before decisions that should’ve been simple. She’d ask instead of tell. Watch my reaction too closely. Like she was preparing for permission—or backlash.
I hated knowing someone had taught her that love came with conditions.
Then there were the clothes. She’d change outfits more than once.
Tug fabric lower. Second-guess herself. Cover up a body she worked hard for.
Strength she earned. Confidence she deserved.
I had to tell her—more than once—that I loved how she looked in everything she wore.
That I was proud of her discipline, her curves, her power.
That I didn’t care if other men looked. Hell, let them look.
Because she’s stunning—and she chooses me.
Her moods scared her too.
She warned me about them like they were flaws. Different versions of her emerging depending on the week, the month, the hour. Intense. Soft. Emotional. Fiery.
She tried to contain it all, smooth herself down so she wouldn’t be too much. I told her not to hide any of it. That those shifting edges weren’t weaknesses—they were power. The kind only women carry.
What hit me hardest was realizing she didn’t know who she was allowed to be once I stepped in.
Her only experience with sharing space had been control. So she kept waiting for rules, for expectations. For the moment I’d correct her.
I saw it in the way she watched me—careful, alert, ready. And I stayed steady.
What I learned quickly was that what she needed most from me wasn’t reassurance—it was patience.
She’d lived under tight, manipulative control for so long that her instincts were wired around survival. Then she spent five years reclaiming herself in the only way she knew how—absolute freedom. No explanations or compromises. No one else’s expectations. Her life, her rules.
So when I stepped in—fully and consistently—it confused her.
It wasn’t because she didn’t want me there. It was because suddenly there was another presence in her space, another voice in her day, and she had no idea what healthy truly meant. She only knew two ways to exist in close quarters. Doubt and fear. Or defiance.
Either shrinking herself down, waiting for criticism, or swinging hard in the opposite direction—this is my life, don’t touch it, don’t question it, don’t crowd me.
I saw both versions surface.
Moments where she second-guessed every decision, watched my reactions too closely. And others where she’d plant her feet, daring the world to challenge her autonomy. Neither was wrong. Both were learned. And neither needed correcting.
So I slowed myself down.
I didn’t push. Didn’t claim space that wasn’t offered. Didn’t assume access to her time, her body, her routines. I let her lead when she needed to. Stepped back when she bristled. Stayed close without hovering.
Patience isn’t passive—it’s active. And it meant choosing restraint when instinct told me to fix, reassure, or claim. It meant understanding that her reactions weren’t about me—they were echoes of lives she’d already lived.
In time, I watched her find a third way of living. By choice.
She began responding instead of reacting. Questioning instead of assuming. Allowing me entry without a sense of sacrifice. Learning that sharing space didn’t mean losing herself. And every time she trusted me with another inch of that space, I treated it like something sacred.
That trust changed the way I showed up.