Chapter 18

Alexander’s POV.

I stepped out of the bathroom, water still clinging to my skin, hair dripping trails down my neck and spine. The towel around my waist was deliberately loose, barely secured — one wrong move and it would slip. I knew exactly what I was doing.

It was reckless. Stupid, even. Definitely fireable.

But I let Kira talk me into it.

After Brandon left me outside Eli’s apartment yesterday — cold, distant, unreadable — he didn’t come back to the hotel. I waited. Pretended not to check the door every hour. Pretended not to keep glancing at my phone.

He didn’t show. That’s when I called Kira and told her everything.

Her advice? “If he’s going to play games, you might as well flip the board.”

So here I was. Wet. Barely dressed. Walking out into our shared hotel room like sin wrapped in a hotel towel.

And there he was — Brandon — sitting on the edge of the bed, back straight, laptop open, sleeves rolled up, tie gone. He looked calm. Controlled. Like he hadn’t spent the night pretending I didn’t exist.

His eyes were on the screen.

I moved slowly across the room, pretending not to notice the way his fingers paused — just for a second — over the keys. My footsteps were nearly silent against the carpet, but the dripping water made soft sounds.

He didn’t look up.

Didn’t speak.

I hated him for it.

I hated that I still wanted him to look at me. That part of me — the stupid, reckless part — was screaming look at me, look at me, please look at me.

I hovered near the window, pretending to check the view, letting the late afternoon light catch the water still glistening on my skin. I felt ridiculous. Half-naked, desperate, performing for a man who might not even care.

“Are you finished?” he said, finally.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

I turned, arms crossed loosely over my chest, towel still clinging low to my hips. “Finished with what?”

He glanced up. Briefly. Just long enough for our eyes to meet.

“You’ve made your point,” he said. “Now put on some clothes.”

My throat tightened. “What point do you think I’m making?”

Brandon didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, studying me with those unreadable gray eyes like I was just another problem on his desk.

“That I was right about you,” he said at last.

My stomach twisted. “Right about what, exactly?”

“That you’re reckless,” he said. “That you don’t think. That you act on impulse and let people get under your skin. That you let your emotions make decisions for you.”

I almost laughed. “And yet I’ve lasted longer than any assistant you’ve had.”

“That says more about your threshold for humiliation than your qualifications.”

Ouch.

I flinched despite myself. His eyes flicked away, like he regretted it — but of course, he didn’t take it back.

“You’re cruel,” I muttered, not caring if he heard.

He stood up, then walked towards me. “You’re testing my limits, Kingsley. Don’t push me”. His hands found my throat and his grip tightened not enough to cut the oxygen flow but enough to make me moan.

“Is this what you want?” he murmured, voice low. “To be touched by your boss? To throw your job away for a little attention?”

His thumb pressed lightly just beneath my jaw, tilting my face up. I could barely breathe — not from his grip, but from the way he was looking at me.

“Please,” I breathed, the word slipping out before I could stop it. Fuck! I’m so pathetic.

“Put some clothes on, we are leaving tomorrow”. With that, he grabbed his laptop and walked out of the room.

The hum of the jet was soft — a constant, quiet purr beneath the leather seats and polished wood trim. Luxury had a way of feeling suffocating when you were sitting beside the man who’d nearly kissed you, nearly touched you, nearly ruined you… and then walked away like none of it mattered.

I sat two seats away from him, despite there being space directly across from his. My laptop was open in front of me, but the words on the screen blurred every time he so much as shifted in his seat.

He hadn’t spoken to me since we boarded.

Not after last night. Henceforth, I will bury all these fucking feelings for him.

I’ll flirt with whoever I want. Fuck whoever I want. Man, woman — hell, a goddamn lamp if I feel like it — without thinking of him. Without seeing his face flash behind my eyelids every time I close them.

No more stupid jokes.

No more lingering glances or holding my breath when he walks past.

He wants a professional assistant?

He’s going to get just that.

From now on, I’ll be ice. Efficient, emotionless, clock-in, clock-out. He won’t even remember what my laugh sounds like. Won’t get a single piece of me outside of a spreadsheet.

I sat rigid, eyes fixed on the clouds outside the jet window, determined not to so much as glance at him.

Then I heard it.

The faintest shift — fabric against leather, the sound of Brandon adjusting in his seat.

Again.

Then again.

I frowned.

It wasn’t like him to fidget. Not unless something was wrong.

My ears sharpened, catching the way his breath came slower… heavier… like he was trying to control it. Like each inhale was too much and still not enough.

Something prickled at the back of my neck.

And then—

It hit me.

A scent. Barely there, but unmistakable.

Faint and sharp and… Alpha.

Not his usual clean cologne. Not the impersonal scent he wore to the office.

No — this was raw. Chemical. Feral. A slow-burning heat creeping through the cabin.

My heart jumped into my throat.

No. No, no, no. He couldn’t be—

I turned my head carefully, subtly.

And froze.

Brandon was slouched ever so slightly in his seat, his tie loosened, his shirt clinging to sweat-slicked skin. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle twitching near his temple. His hand was gripping the armrest hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

His eyes were closed. But his chest was rising and falling like he’d just run five miles.

Shit.

I sat up straighter, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Are you—uh—are you okay, Mr. Cole?”

No answer. I didn’t realize I was already unbuckling my seatbelt until the click sounded too loud in the silent cabin.

“Mr. Cole?” I asked again, softer this time.

His eyes opened — only halfway — and they were glowing.

“Don’t,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

I blinked. “Don’t what?”

“Come closer,” he growled.

That tone—command layered with desperation—went straight to my spine. And despite every logical part of me telling me to sit back down, to mind my business, to stay professional—

—I moved.

A little.

Barely an inch.

But his hand shot out, gripping the armrest tight enough I heard the subtle groan of leather under his fingers.

“Alex,” he warned, teeth clenched. “I’m… holding on by threads.”

“You’re going into a rut”.