Chapter 41
ALEXANDER
“Oh—and make sure Robert Solas understands one thing,” I say, just before reaching the door. My voice is calm, but the edge in it could cut glass.
“I don’t share. Not women. Not power. Not what's mine.”
Then I turn on my heel and walk out, the man’s fresh screams echoing behind me, following me like a twisted symphony down the hall.
Despite what the world whispers about me, I’m not devoid of emotion.
I feel—deeply, sharply.
But I’ve learned to bury it beneath ice and steel.
People call me cold, heartless, a monster cloaked in tailored suits and bloodstained hands.
That’s fine.
That’s the role I let them see.
Ruthless, merciless—it's the mask I wear because it keeps the weak in line and the dangerous at a distance.
And I wear it well.
I didn’t want weaknesses—not then, not now. Especially not in the form of a woman I’d barely known for forty-eight hours.
Yet somehow, she was already under my skin, threading herself through the cracks I’d spent years sealing shut.
I threw back the whiskey, letting the burn crawl down my throat like punishment.
Feelings were a liability.
They reminded me of the nights I’d stared at the ceiling, wondering if I’d live to see the morning. Of the parts of me I’d buried deep and vowed never to dig up again.
Reaching into the drawer, I pulled out one of my favourite blades, the steel catching the low light as I turned it in my hand. I checked the edge with a practised thumb, satisfied with the whisper-thin line of danger it held.
Knives were my art. I could hit a moving target from fifty yards, maybe more if the wind was right. I knew every nerve, every artery—how to draw out pain, and how to end it clean.
Guns were efficient, sure, but knives?
Knives were personal.
Intimate.
You couldn’t watch a man’s soul leave his body from a distance.
I ran the cloth over the blade, slow and methodical, when the door creaked open.
“Boss,” came a calm voice.
I didn’t look up. “You’re late.”
My lawyer stepped in, pausing just inside the doorway as I slid the knife back into the drawer.
“I heard there’s been a situation,” he said carefully.
I leaned back, the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth.
“There’s always a situation.”
I glance up as Donovan steps closer, his gait precise, measured—like every move is calculated.
A leather folder rests under his arm, clutched like it contains something far more dangerous than paper. His jaw is tight, his eyes avoiding mine. He knows better than to keep me waiting.
"Is it done?" I ask, voice smooth, but edged with steel.
He gives a sharp nod.
"Exactly as you instructed. Binding. Absolute. No loopholes."
He places the folder on the table with reverence, flicking it open to reveal a pristine stack of papers.
I set the blade in my hand aside—still stained from earlier business—and wipe my fingers clean, the metallic scent of blood clinging to my skin.
The paper is crisp, untouched. Black ink glistens under the low light. My eyes skim the contract—her full name tethered to mine, every clause laced with control.
No romance.
No illusions.
A marriage in the name. A collar in practice.
Each word, each line, is a promise. A binding. A cage.
My lips curl, slow and deliberate.
Perfect.
Only the signature needed, her name to seal the inevitable.
I turned my back to Donovan, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows as the city lights shimmered in the distance. My eyes were fixed on the view, but my mind was far from it.
Tomorrow, Alina will be my wife.
And with her, the inheritance she didn’t even know she was about to hand over on a silver fucking platter.
A slow smirk tugged at my lips. Money—I lived for it. And though I had little faith in the farce called marriage, having Alina legally bound to me didn’t seem so bad anymore. In fact, having her at my beck and call?
That sounded like the kind of entertainment I could grow fond of.
The silence in the room was thick, the kind that settled after a long, gruelling day. My muscles remained tense, a low hum of unrest under my skin. I was exhausted, but not at ease.
Then—vibration. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I sighed, already irritated. Dragging the device out, I answered with a snap.
“What the fuck is it now?”
“Boss,” came the voice on the other end, shaky and strained.
“It’s Miss Satini…” he hesitated, as if unsure how to phrase it.
“What about her?” I growled, the words sharp and clipped.
“She’s… she’s escaping through her window.”
My entire body went still.
Then, rage. Hot, familiar. It surged like gasoline on fire.
Un-fucking-believable.
Should’ve chained her to the damn bed.
"Boss?"
"Why the fuck are you wasting time talking to me you moron?” I snapped, my words sharp as glass, my frustration boiling over.
“Get her,” I growled, voice sharp and cold.
“And take her to the basement. Now.”
I hung up without waiting for a response and turned to face my men. Donovan blinked at me.
“Everything alright, sir?”
“No,” I ground out, jaw tight.
“My fucking bride is trying to escape. Again.”
I stalked across the room, every step echoing with barely restrained rage. My hand reached for the decanter on the bar cart—crystal, expensive, imported—because of course, only the best for me. I poured a drink, neat, the amber liquid sloshing with the same anger twisting in my chest.
The first time she tried to run, I should’ve made an example out of her.
A real punishment. One that would’ve made her think before trying that shit again. But I was soft—too soft. I let her off with a warning and a few threats. I thought she’d learn.
Apparently not.
I brought the glass to my lips and took a long drink, letting the burn sear down my throat, wishing it could scorch the irritation clawing through me. The fury that someone—she—dared to defy me.
Again.
She didn’t understand yet.
But she would.
Because this time, there would be no soft warnings. No gentle corrections. I’d make damn sure the next time she thought about opening that window, her body would remember what it cost her.
I slammed the glass down on the table, the sound sharp and final.
She wanted to run?
Then she’d learn exactly what it meant to belong to me.