Chapter 99 At Least They Still Touch Her
Caroline thought he might pause, maybe catch his breath. Instead, Alexander shifted suddenly, his knee pressing between her legs, spreading them apart.
There was no warning. No gentleness. He drove into her with a force that stole the air from her lungs, pushing deep until she could feel nothing but the weight and heat of him.
A sharp sound escaped her throat, half pain, half shock. His hand rose, brushing away the tear at the corner of her eye with what might have looked like tenderness—yet his rhythm stayed relentless, unyielding.
Time blurred. She lost track of how long it lasted. When it was finally over, the world outside the window had fallen into darkness.
She lay sprawled across the bed, every muscle slack, her body rocking faintly with the aftershocks. The room seemed to sway around her, like the slow roll of a ship on open water.
The mattress dipped beside her. Without meaning to, she rolled toward the hollow, into an embrace that was cool against her overheated skin.
She drew a quiet breath, shoulders curling inward as a low, tired voice murmured above her head.
"Don't move..."
Caroline stiffened. She thought she'd disturbed him—that he'd push her away, maybe order her out.
But the rejection never came.
The arm around her waist tightened, pulling her closer, locking her in place. The hold was so firm she could barely breathe.
Moments later, his breathing shifted... slower, steadier. He was asleep. Asleep, and still holding her.
She didn't dare believe it. Only when she was certain he had drifted off did she turn slightly, letting the moonlight from the window fall across his face.
In sleep, the shadows between his brows seemed lighter, less severe. She found herself staring, her hand lifting almost on its own, wanting to smooth the lines there.
But inches before her fingers touched his skin, she stopped. She was afraid to wake him. Afraid the fragile warmth would shatter.
After a pause, she lowered her hand and tucked herself deeper into his arms.
It was madness, she knew. But at least he was holding her. At least he hadn't pushed her away the moment it was over.
Maybe... maybe that meant the wall between them had cracked, even just a little. Maybe there was a way back to what they'd once had.
Comforted by the thought, she let her eyes close. Sleep came quickly.
She woke to the sound of harsh, uneven breathing.
Her eyes flew open. Before she could think, her hand reached for his forehead.
He was burning up.
"Alexander!" she whispered urgently, trying to sit up.
The arm around her waist clamped tighter, dragging her back against him.
"Don't move..." His voice was rough, half-mumbled, heavy with exhaustion.
He wasn't fully awake. She could tell. His hold was instinctive, resisting the cool absence of her body. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, a faint, contented sound rumbling from his chest. "...Feels good like this."
"You're feverish... worse than before!" Panic sharpened her voice. "Let me go, I'll get a doctor!"
"Don't move..." he repeated, the words almost a growl.
She stopped struggling, afraid of making it worse. Instead, she slid one arm around his shoulders, her palm moving in slow circles over his back, soothing him like a restless child.
"Alright... I'm here. Just relax... the doctor will come soon. You'll be fine..."
After a long while, his breathing began to ease. The grip around her loosened.
She took the chance to slip free, careful not to jolt him. His arm fell limply to the bed with a dull thud.
The sound made her flinch. She didn't waste time. Throwing the blanket aside, she swung her legs over the edge—only to freeze when her feet touched the cold floor.
Bare skin. She was naked.
The chaos from hours ago flashed back in sharp fragments—clothes torn, fabric ripping under his hands. What was left of her dress wouldn't cover anything.
Her cheeks flushed, but there was no time for modesty.
She crossed the room quickly, heading for the walk-in closet off the master bedroom.
Inside, rows of tailored suits and crisp shirts hung in perfect order. Not a single piece belonged to her.
She scanned the space, then grabbed the plainest white cotton shirt she could find. It was far too big, the hem brushing her thighs, sleeves needing to be rolled several times—but it was something.
She pulled it close around her, took a steadying breath, and eased open the bedroom door.
"Kenna? Kenna!" she called, keeping her voice low but urgent.
The housekeeper had been waiting downstairs. She appeared almost instantly, hurrying up the steps.
Seeing Caroline standing there—flushed, hair tangled—Kenna's eyes widened. "Madam! Are you alright? Are you ill?"
"I'm fine!" Caroline shook her head quickly, gripping her arm. "It's Alexander. The fever's worse—much worse. Get the emergency kit and call the doctor. Hurry!"
Kenna's expression sharpened. "Yes, Madam. Right away."
She turned and ran down the stairs.
Caroline shut the door and leaned back against it, drawing in a breath. Her gaze swept the room.
The floor was littered with torn fabric—her ruined dress, underthings, and pieces of Alexander's clothing. The scene was a mess.
Her face flushed even more.
The doctor couldn't see this. Not like this.
She crossed the room in quick steps, crouching to gather the clothes. But she moved too fast, and a sharp pain flared between her thighs.
A gasp caught in her throat. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, knees buckling until she sank onto the carpet, breath shallow.