Chapter 75: Chapter Twenty

Alice

I didn’t sleep.

I was too confused.

Too hurt.

Upset.

I had no life anymore, not that I’d had one before, I just didn’t know how to navigate not only Andrei’s mood swings but the fact that I knew if I pushed him too far he wouldn’t hesitate in shooting me or torturing me.

I shivered under the covers and finally threw them over and got up.

I was just about ready to walk across the hall to the bathroom when I noticed a note on my closet door.

“Open.”

That’s all it said, “open.”

Creepy. Was he in there last night? Watching me sleep like Twilight gone bad? I shivered again then walked over to the closet door and swung it open. Immediately, a light turned on.

I gasped.

Tons of jeans, leggings, shirts, sweaters, dresses, enough clothing that it would have taken someone at least an hour or two to hang everything.

How had he done it in the middle of the night?

I walked into the closet and did a small circle. Heels, Nikes, sandals. Did that mean I was staying longer than a few days? Did that mean he was going to give me a job or something to do?

I didn’t have time to think beyond that, because there was a knock on my door and then Andrei was letting himself in.

“Good, you found clothes.” He sounded bored.

I put my hands on my hips and then realized I probably looked like I’d been run over by a truck, dark circles under my eyes and messy hair, wearing last night’s tight dress.

Perfect.

He stared at my toes then slowly made his way up, his expression somber, and then a small smile. “Trouble sleeping?”

“You could say that,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I have a doctor in the family. I’ll grab you something to help you sleep.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Would I wake up?”

“Depends.” He leaned against the closet door. “Would you want to?”

I scowled, irritated that he always had to make everything about death and darkness and couldn’t just have a normal conversation.

Then again, nothing about him was normal.

He was wearing black skinny jeans, a V-Neck shirt that showed off an expanse of tattoos on his chest and his blond hair was combed a bit to the side, he looked.

Nice.

In fact, I hated it.

He looked approachable.

Like the really hot guy you see at the mall and daydream about after you make a fool out of yourself stalking him and trying to snag a picture for Instagram.

He held out a hanger.

And on that hanger.

Was my freedom.

Or as much freedom as I would ever get offered.

I stumbled toward him and grabbed the hanger. “An Eagle Elite uniform?”

“Mmm.” He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t want the princess to get bored in her dark tower.”

I instantly felt guilty. “Look, I appreciate what you did, rescuing me from—”

He moved so fast I didn’t have a chance to prepare for it. He cupped a hand over my mouth, his eyes flashing with fury. “Never, ever say that again. I’m not the hero.

“Remember that when you close your eyes, when you want to say thank you. I’m as selfish as they come, as lethal as can be, and nothing on this godforsaken earth is free. Do. You. Understand?”

I nodded.

He didn’t move.

His face suddenly paled as he looked down.

What was he looking at?

And that’s when I realized.

He wasn’t wearing gloves.

His hand was touching my mouth.

Skin on skin.

He was warm.

Why did I expect him to be so cold? Why did I assume he’d be unfeeling?

He inhaled slowly.

Exhaled.

And yet he didn’t move his hand.

Tension built between us. His body had grown taut with something I couldn’t really define, but there was a violence in his stillness, like a storm ready to rain hell.

I wasn’t sure what to do, so I stared him down, and I breathed, I kept in cadence with his breaths and then the little light in the closet turned off, probably from our lack of movement.

His hand stayed, he lowered his head, then slowly slid his palm across my face. It fell to my cheek as he cupped it. His fingertips were soft, his movement silky.

“You’re too warm,” he whispered like it was a problem, like he didn’t understand why it was a problem, just that it was. His head ducked again. This time, his cheek pressed to mine, his lips parted.

I closed my eyes.

Berating myself for feeling anything other than horror that he was touching me, the man who would kill me, the man who was both savior and Satan.

“So fucking warm.” He nipped my lower lip.

I gasped as he pressed his hard body against mine and slid his tongue past my lower lip.

This wasn’t him.

This kiss.

This was something else.

This was almost tender.

This felt scorching and heartbreaking all at once, as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, his hand never leaving my face, his body pinning mine to the wall.

But his touch was the first touch I’d had from the opposite sex that wasn’t mocking.

It was tender.

And it was breaking my heart more than the other kisses ever did.

The light flickered on.

He stopped kissing me, stepped away, ran shaky hands through his hair, and snapped. “Put on the damn uniform.”

And then he was gone.

And everything went back to normal in my mind. Because I knew, it was my fault. I was the one that had that effect on men, wasn’t I?

That’s what my brother said.

It’s what my dad said was my curse.

I was doing this to him, right?

My fault. My fault.

My only solace was that he didn’t try to touch me, and that for once in my life, I could imagine, I could dream, and I could lie to myself that the kiss was real.

When I knew, he would hate himself for it, the way he hated me.

Just like everyone hated me.

For being nothing but me.

A woman born in the wrong family.

With the wrong name.

And pretty hair.

With tears in my eyes, I grabbed the uniform shoved into my hands then very slowly hung it up and started to change.