Chapter 32 The Man Beneath the Suit
Alexander’s master suite in Founders’ Crest is larger than my entire childhood home.
Even after three days, I’m still dwarfed by the dark marble floors, the towering bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes, and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sprawling Darkmoor gardens.
Past the meticulously trimmed hedgerows and ancient oaks, I can just make out where the wild woods begin, the boundary between Eclipsera and whatever lies beyond.
Vairen, if my geography lessons were correct.
Though now, I wonder how much of what we were taught was truth, and how much was carefully curated fiction.
The Silva archives, restricted to Founding Families alone, hold volumes upon volumes of secrets I never knew existed.
But those thoughts feel irrelevant, dissolving as my fingers drift across Alexander’s chest. His skin is still damp with exertion, his breath heavy beside me.
The silk sheets pool around us, and I marvel at how a man of his age maintains such ruthless perfection.
Each muscle carved with intent, every movement precise, even now, in these private moments when the world can’t see him.
“I never knew it could be like this,” I murmur, pressing closer. The soreness between my thighs is a delicious reminder of his passion. Of how he chose me. For three exquisite days, I’ve been more than just Luna Ellis—I’ve been his.
He shifts, and I instinctively lean in, chasing the warmth of his skin, the steady rhythm of his heart. But he’s already pulling away, disentangling from my arms with infuriating grace. The loss of him leaves me raw and exposed.
“Don’t go,” I whisper, hating how needy I sound but unable to stop myself. Still, my fingers reach, brushing his arm.
“I need a shower.” His voice is distant now, stripped of heat. “The board meeting won’t wait.”
I push myself upright, the sheets sliding down to my waist. “Let me join you?” I aim for sultry, but there’s a rasp of desperation beneath it I can’t quite smooth out. “We could—”
“Luna.” My name is both warning and dismissal. His mouth tilts into that perfect, polished smile that makes my stomach tighten. “I think I can manage on my own this morning.”
He rises, and I suddenly feel too naked. Every inch of skin he’s touched, every faint bruise or scratch, exposed under the bright morning light. The intimacy of night burns off in daylight, leaving nothing but space. The bed yawns wide beside me, cold and vacant, and I pull my knees to my chest.
I watch him cross the room toward the en-suite, unable to look away from the elegant cut of his back, the strength in every step. The door clicks shut and I’m left with nothing but the echo of his touch and thoughts that won’t quiet.
I sink deeper into his bed—our bed? —and breathe in the scent he’s left on the pillows.
Every morning I expect to wake and find it’s all been an elaborate dream.
But it’s real. The silk sheets against my bare skin are real.
The way he claimed me last night, whispering promises against my throat, that was real too.
Wasn’t it?
Doubt creeps in like rot, silent and swift.
Memories I thought I’d buried claw to the surface.
The boys at the Academy who asked for help with blood magic theory, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes.
The ones who dated me for months, only to casually mention how pretty they found my sister.
Partners in practical exams who figured being kind to the younger Ellis might earn them access to the elder. Always her. Never me.
But Alexander is different. He has to be. He chose me.
Not Aria, not any of the countless women who throw themselves at him. Me. The way he watches me when we’re alone, with that quiet intensity that says I’m rare, something worth keeping. No other man has ever made me feel so seen.
I’ve heard the whispers, of course. The smirks in the break room, the murmured comments between senior staff.
Everyone knows about the others—brief entanglements behind locked doors, hurried trysts in hotel suites or his office.
But none of them were brought here. None were invited into the sanctum of his private wing. Into this bed.
None of them saw the real Alexander, the man who traces constellations across my skin while murmuring his visions for the future. The one who tells me I understand him in ways his wife never could.
His wife.
The thought sends an icy spike through my chest. Vivienne sleeps somewhere in the opposite wing, likely in an equally luxurious bed.
Does she know? Does she care? The stories say she turns a blind eye.
That their marriage is one of convenience and power rather than love.
Alexander told me so himself, his voice soft and intimate in the darkness.
The rhythm of the shower reminds me he’s still here.
In a few minutes, he’ll reemerge as the immovable force who governs Eclipsera with unshakable authority.
But I know the man beneath the suit now.
I’ve tasted his desire, felt the weight of his need.
He might have to maintain appearances at work, keep our relationship discreet, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
Does it?
No, I won’t let doubt poison this. I am Alexander Darkmoor’s chosen one, and I will prove to him—to everyone—that I deserve to be here. In his bed. In his life. In his future.
The bathroom door opens in a swirl of steam and Alexander steps out, a towel slung low around his hips, water still glistening across his skin.
Droplets trace slow paths over the sharp lines of his chest, catching in the dark hair there.
I watch transfixed as he moves through his morning ritual.
Every motion deliberate and controlled. Even without his tailored armor, the authority never leaves him, it clings to the breadth of his shoulders, the unbothered grace of a man who bends the world to his will.
He crosses to the closet, and I can’t look away.
Muscles flex and roll beneath skin with each step, the very same arms that had caged me against the sheets hours ago.
The ones that make me deliciously small every time they wrap around me.
He reaches for one of dozens of perfectly cut suits, and as his biceps tense, the towel slips lower, then drops.
Heat blooms in my chest. My gaze skims down the sculpted plane of his back, across the curve of his ass, down to thighs made to crush and command.
It’s almost cruel how flawlessly built he is.
A weapon forged for temptation. Every inch of him is crafted to make girls like me forget who we are, and he knows it.
There’s a flicker of a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth as my eyes devour him. He doesn’t turn or acknowledge me, just lets the silence stretch.
I catch his eye in the mirror as he buttons his shirt, and a reckless, needy ache unfurls in me.
The silk sheets slide away as I move to the edge of the bed, letting him see every soft curve of my body.
My movements aren’t fluid like his. There’s a tremble in my fingers, a clumsy eagerness in how I arrange myself.
I’m not good at this—the seduction or games or whatever this is—but I try.
Because the thought of him leaving tears through the delicate place where hope still lives.
“You must have ten minutes,” I whisper. My voice catches, but I push through.
I wet my lips and force myself to maintain eye contact in the mirror.
“Let me take care of you first. You can just stand there, let me . . .” I trail off, cheeks burning but pressing on.
“You know how good I can make you feel. How much I want to please you.”
He sighs, a sound caught between exasperation and amusement. “Tempting, sweetheart.” His eyes rake over my exposed body, making me shiver. “But I told you, I have work.”
Somehow, the gentleness in his rejection wounds more than cruelty would. I sink back into the pillows, dragging the sheets over myself. My fingers curl into the silk, twisting tight, knuckles blanching from the force it takes to keep myself intact.
I won’t cry. I will not be that pathetic.
But something must crack across my face, because Alexander pauses at the edge of the room, his hand hovering above his watch, eyes narrowing with faint concern.
He turns to look at me and sighs again, quieter this time, less sharp.
The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits, and I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste iron.
His fingers glide into my hair, brushing with unbearable gentleness. “Look at me, Luna.”
I don’t. I can’t. Not until his hand slides to my cheek, thumb sweeping away the dampness I didn’t notice until it’s gone. He tilts my chin upward, coaxing my gaze to meet his, and I blink rapidly, trying to trap the tears before they fall.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, mortified by my display. “I’m being clingy and stupid. I know you have responsibilities, I just . . .” The words die as his thumb grazes my lower lip, silencing me with a touch.
“Shhh.” Alexander’s voice is velvet now, threaded with something far more dangerous than dismissal. “Don’t ever apologize for wanting me. Not that.” His eyes search my face, and whatever he finds there makes his expression soften further. “You’re not being foolish. You’re being mine.”
The possessive note in his voice burns heat through me, searing away the hollow ache of rejection. I lean into his touch, soaking in the gentle brush of his fingers against my skin, the way his presence seems to fill all the empty spaces inside me.
“I just miss you the second you leave,” I admit, the words barely audible. “Is that insane?”
“No, sweet girl.” He dips down, pressing his lips to my forehead. “That’s exactly how I want you to feel.”
Those words should terrify me—the possessiveness, the control, the way he wants me desperate for him. But they don’t.
“Do you . . .” I hesitate, hating how my voice shrinks. “Do you feel the same? When you’re not with me?”
His smile is a secret I’m not meant to understand. “Of course I do.” Then, smoothly, his tone shifts. “It’s Sunday. You deserve to rest, especially after how brilliantly you handled the commercial shoot yesterday. The footage looks incredible, by the way. I knew you’d grasp exactly what we needed.”
“It’s not fair you have to work on a weekend,” I murmur, tracing slow, absent-minded circles along his wrist, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath my fingertips.
His chuckle is low and indulgent. “Just a few meetings to close out. Some details to finalize.” Alexander’s expression shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly. “And Rowe’s being discharged from the hospital today. I’m certain he’ll be in a particularly foul mood, so I need to smooth things over.”
“How is he?” I ask, concern coloring my voice despite everything. “After what happened.”
“He was sedated for two days, but he’s good as new now.
” His fingers continue their gentle caress along my jaw.
“Dr. Vale oversaw the treatment personally, neutralized the toxin in time. His magical essence has stabilized, and the venom has cleared.” He pauses, a shadow flickering behind his eyes.
“But it was close. A few more minutes, and the damage would’ve been permanent. ”
Guilt gnaws at me. If Rowe was in that state, then Aria . . .
The thought must be written across my face, because Alexander’s touch shifts, his fingers sliding into my hair, gently massaging my scalp until my eyes flutter half-shut.
“Kian tells me Aria is fine,” he remarks, voice flattened to something unreadable. “A rather miraculous recovery, from what I gather.”
“Good,” I murmur, and to my own surprise, I mean it.
For all she’s done—for always overshadowing me, for working against everything we’ve tried to build, for betraying everything our parents believed in—I still don’t want my sister dead.
The genuine relief in my voice must please Alexander because his smile softens into something almost tender.
“I should be done by late afternoon,” he says, adjusting his tie. “Why don’t we have dinner together? Just us.”
“Where?” I try not to sound too eager. “We could go to that new place in—”
“I’ll have the chef prepare something in the gardens,” he interrupts smoothly, though his fingers are still gentle on my cheek. “More intimate that way. Don’t you think?”
I swallow the flicker of disappointment. But the rumors at work are already thick enough, no reason to complicate his image further. “The gardens sound perfect.”
“Good girl.” His praise sends shivers down my spine. “And feel free to use the private lab while I’m gone,” he adds. “I know you’re eager to analyze yesterday’s trial results.”
“I still can’t believe how quickly everything came together,” I say, watching him organize the papers into his briefcase. “The ethics approvals, the facility installation, even the subject selection.”
His lips curve into a smirk. “When I want something done, it gets done rather quickly. Especially with all the Founding Families on board.” He leans down, capturing my lips in a kiss that leaves me dizzy. “The perks of power, sweetheart.”
“At this rate, you won’t even need me to do any of the work at all,” I tease, though there’s a thread of insecurity beneath the words.
His chuckle is low. “I’ll see you later. Wear that pink dress we picked up the other day.”
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in a bed that still smells like him, wrapped in the remnants of our hunger, and already aching for his return.