Page 99 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It’s the longest night of my life, waiting for dawn. I should have put a time on the note I sent, but somehow I’d known the more I demanded, the less she might come. I wait for her until dawn cracks along the horizon and seeps through the windows of the house.

Our house.

If she’ll have me. I push against the thought and the swell of hope it sends ballooning in my chest. If she comes, that means I have a second chance. This time I’ll get it right. I’ll demand less. I’ll protect her more. I’ll separate her from my world, so we can build our own. I just need her to show up.

Instead of lingering on the clock, I get up, toss on jeans and pull a shirt over my shoulders, not bothering to button it. I should shave, but tea seems necessary given how little sleep I’d managed. I place the kettle on the hob and glance out the window. A splash of crimson catches my eye, and without thinking, I find a knife in the drawer and head outside.

The house in Notting Hill is lovelier than the pictures. I hadn’t stepped foot inside until the papers had been signed, and Norris had arranged a private security team—all necessary measures to keep the matter as anonymous as possible. It’s meant as a gift—or, rather, an olive branch. It will be our private sanctuary, tucked in a discreet corner of her favorite neighborhood.

I can’t help marveling as I pad down the steps and into the garden at the sheer freedom. The stone path is warm underfoot, not yet heated by the summer sun, but the flowers are opening, spreading in welcome toward the daylight. A warm morning breeze carries their perfume as if to say hello. I find the rose that caught my eye from the kitchen window and clip it. Spotting it felt like an omen, and I know what I need to do. Taking the flower with me, I pause and tuck it into the door handle. It’s a message and a warning.

Clara must know I sent the key. I’d used my seal even if I hadn’t signed my name. But if somehow she didn’t, the rose will confirm it for her. One final choice. One final crossroads.

I return to the hob to find the water boiling in the kettle. I turn off the flame as a car door shuts on the quiet street.

My heart stops—knowing before I do. I dare to look out the window again, and it restarts. She’s standing at the gate. She looks at the key. She looks at the house. I step back enough that she won’t see me gawking at her from the window and feel like a coward. The sound of the gate creaking open inflates me with hope again. I make it to the door, my hand on the knob before I remember the choice I’ve left her.

A heartbeat passes. Another. Time slows, then stops altogether. I feel her on the other side of that red door. It takes all the restraint I can muster to wait, but as the seconds tick by in agony, I give in, unsure if I’ll find her there or already gone.

It’s harder to open the door than it should be, as though part of me doesn’t want to do so. But she’s on the other side, bathed in sunshine, the rose in hand. Her head whips up, cornflower-blue eyes meeting mine and instantly welling with tears. I drink in the sight of her. Her luscious curves are sharper than the last time I saw her, and there are bluish smudges under her eyes. And she is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

I continue to study every inch of her: the rose flush of her cheeks, the freckles dusting her bare shoulders, the white shirt and the nipples peaking through its threadbare fabric. My gaze lands on a single drop of blood welling on her fingertip. She pricked herself on the rose. I reach for her hand, lift the wound to my lips, and swipe it away with my tongue. A copper tang floods through my mouth, and I feel my knees buckle slightly. I kiss the spot before hooking an arm to pull her to me.

I slant my head over hers and take her mouth before the heat burning in my eyes falls freely. The tears escape on contact, a strange mixture of relief and anxiety and hope and longing. She pulls away, blinking, and before she can process any of it, I’m on my knees. I draw her to me, rest my head against her belly, pleased to find some lingering softness there. But it’s too easy to circle my arms around her waist.

“You’re thinner.” It slips out. It’s my fault. I’d thrown her to the wolves. I’d failed to protect her. And she’d born the cost of those choices.

But she’s here now, and that has to mean something.

“I’m okay,” she murmurs. “I haven’t had much of an appetite, but I am eating.”

And now she’s reassuring me as though she needs to defend herself against the pain I’ve caused her.

“You can’t…” I say in a strangled voice. “Not because of me. Promise me, Clara.”

There’s a beat of silence before she does as I ask. “I promise.”

I linger there, holding her, afraid that if I move, she’ll slip away once more. Finally, she breaks the silence, “Where are we?”

I take it as an invitation. Standing, I weave my fingers through hers and lead her into the house, not yet trusting myself to speak. Part of me wants her inside as if a stupid door is obstacle enough to keep her here. I watch as she takes in the living area. It had come mostly furnished, but I’d managed to trick Edward into helping me choose the rest of the decor on the pretext of giving a shit about my own apartment at Buckingham. I suspect he realized the truth, but he didn’t press for answers. My brother is good like that. Her eyes skip over the deep sofa, upholstered in cream linen to the marble hearth to the paintings on the wall. She doesn’t say anything, so I find myself answering the question she asked on our doorstep. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

I can almost swear I smell her dampen with arousal, but maybe it’s wishful thinking.

“Twenty questions again, X?” she asks, sounding tired. Too tired. Maybe she didn’t sleep last night either.

I shake my head and dart a nervous tongue over my lips.“No games, poppet.”

“Why are we here?” she asks a new question.

Maybe she wants to play after all. I take a step toward her, drinking in her scent: rosewater and vanilla, and under it a soft, heady musk that beckons me to the apex of her thighs. I resist the urge to follow it. “You’re getting warmer.”

“Whose house is this?” She practically mouths the final question.

I lean in to whisper, “Ours.”

Clara shoves against my chest, glaring at me. “I don’t understand.”