Chapter 19

**ALINA**

The door creaked open, but I didn’t look up.

I sat against the wall, my knees pulled to my chest, my arms wrapped around them. My eyes burned, swollen from the tears I had tried—and failed—to hold back. My throat was raw, and my body was stiff from sitting in the same spot for what felt like hours.

A heavy sigh filled the room.

"Tell me you’re not crying," Alexander drawled, his voice dripping with irritation and something dangerously close to amusement.

"I hate whining girls. It’s pathetic… and honestly, a little boring."

My jaw clenched. I quickly wiped at my cheeks, forcing my expression into something closer to anger than despair. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me weak. 

Ever.

He stepped further into the room, his gaze sweeping over me before landing on the pile of clothes on the floor—the ones he had sent up earlier.

The ones I had smashed into a crumpled heap.

His eyes flicked back to me, then to the nightdress I was still wearing. His smirk was slow, taunting.

"Didn't like my gift?" he murmured, amusement dancing in his voice. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he took in my reaction, his gaze lingering on the night dress that clung to my curves. 

"Not that I mind," he continued, his tone low and husky. "That night dress doesn't leave much to the imagination." He paused, his eyes roaming over me with a slow, deliberate intensity. 

"It's almost... tantalizing. The way it hugs your body, the way it teases me with glimpses of what's underneath." His voice dropped to a whisper, the words sending shivers down my spine. 

"I must say, I'm rather glad you didn't like the gift. This... is so much better."

My face burned with humiliation, but I pushed myself up from the floor, straightening my spine. 

My fingers clenched around the edges of the robe as I tightened it over my nightdress, suddenly regretting not keeping at least one of the outfits he’d sent.

"Send me to another room," I demanded, wiping the last remnants of tears from my face. 

"I’m not staying here with you."

His smirk faded. His expression hardened.

"Not happening."

I folded my arms, glaring at him. 

"Why? You have a whole damn mansion. Pick any other room. You have no reason to keep me here."

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head like I was a stubborn child.

"You almost ran earlier," he reminded me, his voice deceptively calm but with an undercurrent of warning. 

His eyes seemed to bore into mine as if daring me to try it again. "And I don't trust you not to try again," he continued, his tone firm but controlled. 

"So, no, Alina. You stay here, where I can keep an eye on you." He took a step closer, his presence looming over me, making me feel trapped and vulnerable. 

"You're not going anywhere until I'm satisfied that you understand the situation," he said, his voice low and even. 

"And until then, you're going to have to get used to being... watched." The word hung in the air like a threat, sending a shiver down my spine as he added, 

"By me."

My hands curled into fists. "You can’t just—"

"I can," he cut in smoothly, stepping closer. "And I will."

The challenge in his eyes was clear.

I jab a finger against his chest, my voice laced with fury.

“You won’t get away with kidnapping me.”

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s something dark in his eyes, something almost amused.

“You’re not in charge of me,” I snap.

Before I can pull away, his hand closes around my finger.

“Ow,” I hiss, trying to jerk back.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he tightens his grip, bending it just enough to make me wince. He’s testing me—no, testing himself—seeing how far he’s willing to go.

The urge to lash out was overwhelming, to tell him to fuck off and call him the fucking moron he was being. But I swallowed the insults, biting my tongue. 

I knew that giving in to my anger would only escalate the situation, and right now, that wouldn't end well for me.

So instead, I say, “Don’t.”

His head tilts slightly, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Don't what?"

"Let go or... or I'll scream, you bastard!" I threaten, though my voice wavers slightly.

His lips curl into a smirk. "Go ahead."

His voice is maddeningly calm like he’s already played out every possible outcome and knows exactly how this ends.

"Scream all you want," he muses, his grip unyielding. 

"Hell, you could even try running... again." His fingers tighten just enough to remind me who’s in control. 

"I don’t know how fast you are, but let’s be honest—you’re not fast enough to outrun me." His smirk deepens. 

"Still, I wouldn’t mind watching you try. Make things... interesting."

My pulse pounds against my ribs as his fingers slide from mine, but before I can yank my hand away, he catches it, pressing his palm flat against mine. Holding me there.

A quiet, deliberate show of control.

"Maybe you could scream to the cops," he muses, his grip firm around my hand, his thumb lazily tracing circles against my skin, as if this is all just a game to him.

"Tell them everything—just like you threatened in the car. They’d hold you for questioning, make a few calls, pretend to care…"

His eyes darken, amusement flickering beneath the surface. "Then the feds would get involved."

His fingers tighten slightly before he starts stroking my palm, almost absently, as if he's savouring the feel of me.

I freeze.

He tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to our joined hands. Studying them. Toying with them. It shouldn't send a thrill down my spine. It shouldn't make my pulse stutter.

"But you can’t be sure which people are mine, can you?" His voice is smooth and axing, leading me toward a realization I don’t want to have.

I swallow hard.

"And you have to wonder… how concerned would the authorities be?" His voice dips lower, teasing, cruel. 

"Let’s be honest," he continues, finally releasing my hand. 

"A lot of them would be team bastard, considering I pay them a whole lot of fucking money."

The second he lets go, I rub my palm against my nightgown, trying to wipe away the clammy warmth of his touch. Yeah—the same damn nightgown I’m still wearing.

He notices.

And smirks.

I glare, but before I can fire back, he casually reaches for the top button of his shirt, flicking it open. Then another. His fingers move lazily, deliberately, revealing smooth skin beneath.

I blink, not looking. But my gaze betrays me, catching the way his muscles shift under the fabric, the slow, prpractisedase of it.

Heat prickles up my neck.

"Stop that," I snap, whipping my head away.

His smirk deepens as he undoes another button.

I grit my teeth, forcing my voice to stay steady. "Why don’t you take your clothes off in the bathroom?"

He pauses, one brow arching in amusement. "Why would I do that?" He gestures vaguely around us. 

"This is my bedroom, isn’t it?"

I nod quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. I need to get away from him, even if it’s just for a moment—to breathe, to think, to figure out how the hell I’m going to escape.

For a second, he just watches me, clearly entertained by my discomfort. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he jerks his chin toward the door.

"Fine. Then I’ll use it."