Chapter 72

ALEXANDER

I'll give her a few minutes alone to cool off—

Though I doubted the sudden marriage was something she’d simply get over in a blink.

Maybe she needs time to wrap her head around it, I mused.

Yeah, sure.

Because yeah—throw a girl into the lion’s den, tighten a noose around her throat, slap on the word wedding… and any girl would be grateful, right?

Thrilled to have my name, my protection. My fucking claim.

Real touching. Real fucking poetic.

She should be thanking me I didn’t just put a bullet in her father’s head and be done with it.

I leaned against the doorframe, jaw locked, arms crossed, watching the seconds tick by like a fuse running low.

Marriage?

This wasn’t some sacred union—it was a strategy.

A power play.

A move to seal her inheritance before someone else could sink their claws into it.

One goddamn signature, and her life was rewritten—she just didn’t know it yet.

And still, some twisted part of me expected her to sit pretty, play house, and maybe even thank me for it?

Tch.

Maybe she’s right.

Maybe I am a little fucking delusional.

But I wasn’t going to apologise—not for doing what had to be done.

I stood at the sink, staring at my reflection as I yanked the tie loose like it was a damn noose.

I muttered a curse under my breath and turned on the faucet, letting cold water run over my hands, trying to focus.

But all I could think about was her.

Sitting on my damn couch with her arms around her knees like the world just ended. Like I was the monster she couldn’t escape.

I gritted my teeth and reached into the drawer, looking for the razor I kept there.

My hand slipped.

Pain lanced through my palm as the blade bit in deep.

“Shit!” I hissed, pulling back sharply. Blood welled up along the base of my thumb, running in a crimson line toward my wrist.

Fucking brilliant, Alexander.

My mind was so wrapped around her, I couldn’t even open a drawer without slicing myself open like a goddamn amateur. I ran my hand under the sink, the cold stinging the open cut, but it didn’t help.

The bleeding didn’t slow.

I grabbed a towel and pressed it tight, teeth clenched.

By the time I stepped out, she was still on that damn couch—hunched over, knees pulled tight to her chest like the world was closing in.

Arms wrapped around herself like armour.

Face buried so deep I couldn’t even see her expression.

I told her to be in bed.

Not asked.

Told.

And she fucking ignored me.

So much for my warning.

Fucking doesn’t listen.

Any other person would’ve had a bullet through their skull for less.

One warning, one look, and they knew better than to defy me.

But her?

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t fold.

Just sat there like I didn’t rule the very ground she was sitting on.

And the worst part?

I didn’t know how the fuck to handle it.

Couldn’t break her the way I broke men twice her size.

Couldn’t bend her the way I bent the rules.

She wasn’t afraid of me—not the way she should be.

And I couldn’t decide if that made me want to drag her into obedience...

Or pull her in so close she’d forget what life felt like before my name burned on her skin.

Either way, this girl was a problem.

And I don’t leave problems unsolved.

I took a step closer, the floor creaking under my weight, eyes locked on her stubborn form.

“Get in the fucking bed,” I said, voice low but firm.

“Don’t make me say it again.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even bother to look at me.

Fuck.

Most people knew when to quit. When to bow down.

But not her.

Not this one.

And that just made me want to see how far she’d go before I snapped.

Because whatever game she was playing, it wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Fine.

Let’s do this the hard way.

I crossed the room in long, heavy strides, each step deliberate like a judge passing sentence.

Jaw clenched so tight it could snap steel.

I was done being patient—ready to snatch her off that damn couch and haul her to the bed myself.

Should’ve done it the second I walked in.

No more patience.

This was my territory. My rules.

And she was gonna learn that — one way or another.

I reached out, fingers curling, ready to grab her arm—

Then I heard it.

Soft.

Fragile.

A damn sniffle.

I froze mid-step, heart hammering against my ribs.

What the fuck?

Was she… crying?

And fuck, it threw me off balance more than I cared to admit.

I stood there, frozen, watching her shoulders tremble ever so slightly.

I’d never seen her like this.

She was always fire and fury—spitting venom, baring her teeth, throwing knives with her eyes.

Fierce. Proud. Defiant.

Not like this.

Not… broken.

And that rattled me to my core.

I hated it.

Hated seeing her like this.

Men had cried in front of me a thousand times—broke and begging in some dark, filthy back room while I crushed their will piece by piece.

Women too—tears streaming when I slammed the door on their pretty little fantasies, thinking they could cage a monster like me.

I’d crushed stronger wills than hers without a second thought.

But her?

Her tears cut deeper than any wound I’d dealt.

And that pissed me off more than anything—how fucking powerless I felt, standing here with my hand frozen in the air, unable to do what I wanted: wipe those tears away or smash whatever was breaking her.

I balled my fist tight, hating how she rattled me without even trying.

I was supposed to be the one who broke people. The one who swallowed pain whole and spat out control.

But here she was, shaking me with something I couldn’t shove aside.

Her tears weren’t a weakness.

They were a fucking weapon, and somehow, she wielded it against me.

And that made me fucking furious.

Why was she crying?

And why the fuck did I care?

Why did her crying make my gut twist, my blood run cold?

I should’ve been immune.

I was supposed to be the storm that broke others, not the one shattered by a girl’s sobs.

And yet, there I stood, hand frozen mid-air, caught like a damn fool.

I clenched my fingers tight, jaw grinding as I forced my hand down.

I rubbed my face, exhausted.

This girl… she was screwing with my head in ways I wasn’t prepared for.

How the hell do you handle a woman crying?

Fuck.

Maybe I should call Leo—yeah, he’d know how to deal with this…

Just as that thought crossed my mind, I stopped myself.

Leo? Pfft. Yeah, sure.

Like he’d have a damn clue what to do.

He’s left more women in tears than I’ve left enemies in graves.

Definitely not calling him.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing the chaos down where it belonged.

Get a grip, Alexander.

Her quiet sobs filled the silence, again.

Then came the words—rough, raw, trembling, but with that same stubborn fire.

“I’m not getting on that bed.”

I blinked, caught off guard.

Still pushing me, huh?

Before I could stop myself, the words slipped out—

“You’re crying…”

The words came out flat—sharper than I meant. Too sharp.

I dragged a hand down my face, jaw ticking as I tried again, this time quieter.

“Why are you crying?”

It was supposed to be gentle.

It wasn’t.

“As if you care,” she murmured—so low I almost didn’t catch it.

I felt irritation flare deep in my chest, my jaw clenching tight, my tongue ready to lash out.

But I forced a slow breath through my nose, steadying myself. This wasn’t the moment to scare her off or make things worse.

“Well, you’re right,” I said flatly, voice low but steady.

“I don’t care... but just stop fucking crying. It’s fucking irritating.”

I caught myself the second the words left my mouth.

Fuck.

That sounded colder than I meant.

But hell, I wasn’t about to apologise.

Still, the bitter edge in my throat twisted something inside me.

Maybe I cared more than I wanted to admit.

Maybe that was the real irritation.

I clenched my jaw, exhaling slowly through my nose.

This was bullshit. I didn’t do soft.

I didn’t do fragile. And yet—

I glanced at her again, her shoulders trembling beneath the oversized hoodie, face still buried like she was trying to disappear.

Fuck.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I tried again—

“…So why are you crying?”

I asked again—quieter this time.

Less like a demand, more like a reluctant question pulled from the pit of something I didn’t want to name.

And it pissed me off the most.

I hated how foreign this softness felt on my tongue.

I didn’t do it gently.

Didn’t know how to hold something without breaking it.

Alina lifted her head slightly and placed her chin on her arms, her eyes locking onto mine with a strange mixture of defiance and fragility—like she was about to say something.

But then her gaze shifted.

To my hand.

Her eyes widened.

“You’re bleeding.”

Before I could even glance down, she’d already wiped the tears off her face with the back of her hand and scrambled up from the couch.

Her fingers wrapped around my wrist with surprising urgency, inspecting the cut across my finger —red, shallow, but still bleeding.

“How the hell did this happen?” she asked, voice tight with concern as she scanned the injury.

I blinked, caught completely off guard—not by the cut, but by her.

The genuine panic in her voice. The way her fingers trembled just slightly as she held my hand. As if this—my blood—had knocked the fight out of her.

“I—” I started to speak, but she was already gone, darting toward the bathroom flinging open cabinets like a madwoman.

Her hair whipped behind her with every movement, frustration mounting when she couldn’t find what she needed.

“Fucking rich people,” she muttered under her breath.

“Where the hell is your damn first-aid kit?”

I stood frozen, watching her.

Still trying to process what the hell was happening.

She eventually found one in the bathroom—slammed the drawer shut, then stormed back out with a look on her face like she was about to scold me for even existing.

“Sit,” she ordered, pointing to the edge of the couch.

I didn’t move.

“Alexander. Sit.”

And fuck me, I did.

She dropped down in front of me, pulling out antiseptic and bandages with clumsy, determined hands.

Her brows were furrowed in deep focus, bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she cleaned the blood away with practised care.

And I just stared at her.

Silent.

Still.

Stunned.

No one had ever done this before.

No one had ever touched me like this—not without fear, or desire, or a motive hidden behind soft smiles and fake concern.

No one had ever looked at a wound on my body like it mattered.

But she did.

And it rattled something loose inside my chest—something I didn’t fucking like.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, voice low.

She didn’t look up.

“Because you’re bleeding, you idiot.”

I almost laughed.

Almost.