Chapter 73

ALEXANDER

She dabbed the antiseptic-soaked cotton against the cut on my hand with deliberate care, her brow furrowed in silent concentration.

I flinched at the sting, and without thinking, she leaned forward and blew gently on the wound—trying to ease the burn.

Gone was the fire.

Gone was the venom.

I didn’t know what to do with this version of her.

Didn’t know what to do with myself in this moment.

Because I wasn’t made for this—for gentleness.

I wasn’t the one who got comfort.

I gave orders.

I took what I wanted.

I left ruin in my wake.

Affection wasn’t for men like me. It was a weapon, a liability—something used to break, not heal.

And yet—

Her fingers were soft.

Careful.

Like she was afraid of hurting me. Like I wasn’t made of iron and blood and everything ugly.

A gentleness I didn’t know how to handle—didn’t trust.

Where was the girl who looked at me like I was her worst nightmare?

The one who spat venom as if it were oxygen?

Where the fuck was she?

And what the fuck was this ache in my ribs—

This slow, gnawing thing that felt too close to wanting?

Alina wiped her tears with the back of her hand—halfhearted, smearing the salt across her cheek—and then she reached for me again.

My hand.

The same one that had ended lives.

That had gripped throats and pulled triggers and torn power from dying men like it was owed to me.

And now it just sat there. Still.

Useless.

In hers.

"Does it hurt?" she asked softly, barely glancing up.

I cleared my throat.

“No,” I muttered gruffly.

I didn’t trust myself to say anything more.

Not when everything inside me was off-balance.

Alina being kind?

That threw me harder than a gun to the ribs.

Her hands moved precisely, brushing against my skin as she pressed the last antiseptic pad into place and began wrapping the bandage.

Each movement was careful.

Deliberate.

Like she wasn’t just tending a wound—she was defusing something dangerous.

Her knuckles brushed mine, feather-light, but it still felt like a punch to the gut.

I sat stone-still, jaw clenched, pretending it didn’t get to me—

Pretending the warmth of her touch didn’t burn hotter than the antiseptic.

She didn’t flinch at the scars.

Didn’t pause when her fingers ghosted over broken knuckles and calloused skin.

She just worked… like it was normal.

Like I was normal.

And fuck, that was the part that messed with me most.

“Don’t get it wet… it might get infected,” she said softly.

She closed the box of supplies and stood, ready to put it back where it belonged.

I should’ve let her walk away.

But I didn’t.

Before I could think better of it, my hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

She froze.

Her pulse jumped beneath my fingers, fast and sharp.

Her eyes flicked to mine, wide but unreadable.

I didn’t tighten my grip, but I didn’t let go either.

I didn’t know why I stopped her.

Maybe I wanted answers.

Maybe I just wanted her to stay.

Fuck knows.

She stared at me, her mouth half open—probably about to ask what the fuck my problem was for stopping her.

Truth?

Even I didn’t know.

So I did what I was good at.

I deflected.

I provoked.

I let the devil in me speak.

“You going soft on me now, wife?” I murmured, voice low and sharp enough to cut.

Because it was easier to be cruel.

Easier than admitting her touch did something to me I couldn’t name.

“Or maybe it’s some twisted new game you’re playing—pretending to be soft so I let my guard down, so you can run. Or maybe you’re falling in love, and the thought of me hurt breaks you.”

Her eyes narrowed, the softness from moments ago vanishing like it had never been there.

She yanked her wrist out of my grasp, jaw tight, fire flickering back to life behind those tear-streaked lashes.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she snapped, voice low but laced with venom.

“I was treating a wound, not falling in love.”

Then she stood, spine straight, chin high, like she hadn’t just touched me like I mattered.

Like she hadn’t made something inside me fucking stir.

And just like that—she was back.

My Spitfire.

I grabbed her hand again.. harder this time.

“Treating a wound... but you hate me,” I said, voice flat, sharp—like a blade dragged across ice.

“So why the hell are you patching me up like it means something?”

She didn’t flinch, but I saw the flicker in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation.

I leaned in, grip tightening around her wrist.

“What changed?” I demanded. “What the fuck happened between screaming at me and bandaging my hand like I matter?”

My voice was low but biting. Each word is designed to cut, to shake the truth loose.

“Is this part of some new game? Trying to make me drop my guard?”

I laughed once—humourless.

“You think I’ll soften if you act sweet? That I’ll forget who the fuck I am?”

She tried to pull back. I didn’t let her.

“What is this, Alina?” I growled.

“A ploy? Sympathy play? You want to get in my head now? Manipulate me like the rest of the goddamn world?”

Her silence only pissed me off more.

“Talk,” I snapped, yanking her a little closer.

“You hate me. So why the fuck are your hands shaking now?”

My jaw clenched.

“You don’t get to touch me like that and pretend it doesn’t mean a damn thing. So start talking.”

She didn’t flinch. Not even when I pulled her closer.

But her eyes—fuck, her eyes—something was flickering in them. Not fear. Not submission. Just… pain.

Anger.

But not at me.

At herself.

Her voice came low and tight like she was barely holding it together.

“You’re not the only one confused by this,” she said through gritted teeth. “You think I planned this? That I sat here scheming how to clean your blood off like it was part of some master plan?”

She wrenched her wrist free from my grip, and this time, I let her.

“I didn’t think. I saw you bleeding, and I reacted. That’s it.”

She stood, pacing away a few feet before spinning back, eyes blazing now.

“You want to believe I’m playing you? Fine. Do that. It’s easier than facing the truth, isn’t it?”

She took a step forward, voice rising.

“God forbid someone treat you like a human for two fucking minutes, Alexander.”

She was breathing hard now, eyes glassy. But her spine was steel.

“You’re not the only one who’s messed up here. You think I want to feel anything for the man who bought me like property? The man who terrifies me one second and then… does this?”

She gestured at the bandage. At me.

“I don’t want to care,” she hissed.

“But you bleed, and I still want to stop it. So hate me for it. Push me away. Do what you always do.”

Her chest rose and fell with the weight of her words.

“But don’t stand there and interrogate me like I’m the fucking villain just because your head can’t handle someone not treating you like a monster.”

And then—quieter, like she hated herself for even saying it—

“Maybe I didn’t want to see you in pain.”

She looked away, jaw clenched, her arms wrapping around herself like she needed to hold something in before it all broke loose.

“And maybe that’s my fucking problem.”

I stared at her.

Chest tight. Jaw clenched.

Something ugly and hot twisted in my gut—and for once, it wasn’t rage. It was something I couldn’t name.

Something worse.

Her words rang in my head like bullets ricocheting in a steel room.

“Maybe I didn’t want to see you in pain.”

“Maybe that’s my fucking problem.”

No. No, fuck that.

She didn’t get to say that.

Didn’t get to care.

Didn’t get to mean it.

I let go of her wrist.

Like it was scorched.

And then, like someone flipped a switch, she tossed the first aid kit onto the side table and sank back onto the couch. Her body curled inward, shoulders tight, knees pulled close. She trembled, rubbing her arms as if trying to hold herself together.

Damn it.

Was she cold?

Without thinking, I grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch and stepped toward her. My movements were slow, deliberate—predatory, but careful.

I leaned in and gently draped the blanket over her shoulders.

She froze.

Her eyes flickered first to the throw, then back up to me.

Fuck.

What the hell was I supposed to say now?

“It’s a little cold tonight,” I muttered, voice low and rough—more a growl than a sentence.

A pathetic excuse.

A bullshit justification.

Why the fuck was I even explaining myself?

I stepped back immediately, straightening up. My hands clenched at my sides, the bandage still fresh and tugging slightly as the skin flexed.

I forced my gaze downward—anywhere but on her.

Anger prickled at the edges of my restraint—not at her.

At myself.

The way her damn kindness was ripping me apart from the inside out.

Focus, Alexander.

Don’t get lost in those soft eyes.

Don’t read into that touch, that moment of kindness.

It didn’t mean anything to her—just some impulsive reaction. Reflex.

And it sure as hell didn’t mean anything to me.

Just her patching up a cut, that’s all. No different than cleaning up blood off the floor.

She’s not soft.

She’s not mine.

And I’m not the kind of man who forgets what the fuck he’s made of just because a pretty girl presses a bandage over a scratch.

So pull it together.

It was nothing.

Just a flicker.

Gone now.

Right.

She’s collateral.

Yeah, she’s fucking sexy.

Yeah, I’d love to bend her over the nearest surface, fuck her until she forgets her own name—tear down every wall she’s built just to see what’s underneath.

But that’s all it is.

Lust. Possession. Control.

Her kindness—God, that softness in her hands, in her voice—

It was a glitch in the system. A brief lapse.

A dangerous fucking moment that knocked me off course.

It won’t happen again.

I won't let it.

Don’t forget what you are.

A ruthless man.

A king in a world built on power and fear.

Not this—this mess of confusion and craving that makes me want to unravel everything I’ve built.

I shot her one last look.

Brief. Sharp. Empty.

Then I turned on my heel and stalked toward the door, cutting the air with my words.

“Go to sleep.”

I said it too fast.

Too sharp.

Like a command.

“I’ve got shit to do.”

A lie.

Nothing was waiting for me but silence and a bottle of whiskey.

A good fuck from a whore who doesn’t mean anything, to burn the taste of this Spitfire out of my system.

Maybe two warm bodies at the club to remind me who I was.

I needed to get the fuck away—clear my head before I lost whatever control I had left.

Because this?

This softness?

It’s poison.

And I’m not dying tonight.