Three days. Three whole days since I stayed at his penthouse, and still—still—he’s everywhere in me. His voice, his eyes, the effortless command in the way he moves. His presence refuses to fade, like the ghost of smoke you can’t scrub out of a room.
I groan and shove my face into the pillow, muffling a frustrated sound. It’s infuriating. I don’t want to think about him. I shouldn’t. But my mind betrays me, dragging me back to the way he looked behind that counter, shirtless, broad shoulders backlit by the morning sun. He’d stood there like he owned the whole damn world.
And maybe he does.
His skin, smooth and toned, his body sculpted like something the gods would’ve fought wars over. My fingers twitch with a thought I don’t dare finish. What would his skin feel like under my touch?
Heat rushes up my neck. I slap my cheek, muttering a curse in my head. And of course—my body reacts anyway, twitching hard at the thought of him. Waking up with a boner is normal. But this? Getting hard at the memory of him? That should be a crime.
What the hell is wrong with me? I sit up quickly, exhaling through my nose, chest tight. This is ridiculous. He’s rich, untouchably rich. The kind of wealth that lives in another universe. One I don’t belong in, and never will. And besides…
I shudder, memory unspooling. The alley. The man bleeding out on the pavement, the stillness in Alexander’s body as if violence lived in his bones. His hands bruised, his face unreadable. That calm wasn’t human. It was something darker, something dangerous, and yet… I can’t stop circling back to him.
I press my palms to my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I have enough to worry about.
Like my hearing.
Work has been hell. The silence feels heavier without my aids. The missing one is gone for good, and the other barely hangs on, buzzing uselessly like a dying lightbulb. Everything is muffled and distant, as if the world itself were underwater. Conversations blur past me; voices slip through cracks I can’t fill. Every shift leaves me drained, humiliated by how much I miss.
I should be saving every penny for a replacement. But then Mom, God, my mother, decided to betray me in her usual fashion. Whatever little hope I had of piecing things together, she tore it apart. Again.
Great. Just great.
With a heavy sigh, I drag myself out of bed and into the small living room. Coffee lingers in the air, bitter and warm, grounding me just enough to notice Tyler in the kitchen. He’s at the stove, spatula in hand, eyes glued to the TV. He barely glances at me as he nods a greeting, his scowl deepening as he stirs whatever’s in the pan.
I pause, catching his expression, and I tap the counter to get his attention.
“What’s wrong?” I sign.
Tyler scoffs, flicking his head toward the TV. “Oh, nothing. Just that the police finally closed the case of the guy who was murdered weeks ago. Should’ve done it sooner. The man was a monster. He deserved it.”
I frown, turning to the screen. A photo sits in the corner—bald head, round eyes, a smug, crooked smile.
My breath catches.
Wait. I lean forward, squinting, and my chest caves in as recognition slams into me.
That face. That same man.
The one I saw choking on his own blood in the alley.
My grip locks onto the counter, knuckles burning white. My heart pounds so violently it drowns out everything else.
Alexander killed him?
No. No, I—I thought he was just beating him up.
My stomach twists, sour and tight. Why the hell did I even think it was okay to watch someone get beaten to a pulp and still… still find the man doing it attractive? What’s wrong with me? Why the hell did I even think someone could survive that?
A chill creeps through my skin, sinking deep, as my mind reels.
I slept in his penthouse.
I ate breakfast at his table.
I let him drive me home.
All while knowing what he’s capable of.
