Next Day
England — Airport Gate
The terminal hummed around us, loud and relentless, but I barely registered it. My attention was fixed on the boarding screen, the destination blinking back at me like a countdown.
Xander stood a few feet away, silent as ever. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, jacket unbuttoned just enough to look careless—though nothing about him ever was. His gaze swept the crowd methodically, as if he were cataloguing threats instead of travelers. Cold. Calculating. Entirely at ease.
I fumbled with my boarding pass and dropped my lip gloss.
"Oh—here, let me—"A man nearby bent down, picked it up, and handed it to me with an easy smile. "Thanks. You always drop things when you're nervous, or…?"
I blinked, caught off guard. Heat crept up my neck. "I—no. I mean—thanks."
He lingered, curiosity sharpening his tone. "Flying alone? Or is someone meeting you?"
Before I could answer, Xander returned from the restroom.
His eyes flicked to the man's proximity. Then to me.
The shift was subtle—but unmistakable.
"Am I interrupting?" Xander asked mildly, stepping closer. His voice was calm, polished. His jaw, however, was rigid.
"I—uh—" the man started.
"Just returning something that belongs to her," Xander continued, gaze never leaving his. "How considerate. I suggest you hand it over—now—before anyone misunderstands the gesture."
The man stiffened, color draining from his face. "Right. Sorry." He placed the lip gloss in my hand and retreated without another word.
I stared at Xander. "What was that?"
"Efficiency," he replied smoothly.
"That was not efficiency. That was—" I searched for the word.
"Territorial?" he offered, a faint, humorless smirk touching his lips. "You really don't notice it, do you?"
"He was just being friendly," I said, though my voice lacked conviction.
"Friendly," Xander repeated softly, eyes returning to the boarding screen. "Men rarely are."
I folded my arms, unsure whether to be annoyed or unsettled—or something far more dangerous. My cheeks were still warm.
"You're impossible," I muttered.
"I prefer prepared," he said calmly, as the boarding call echoed overhead. "Now pay attention. Paris doesn't wait for distractions."
In the Air — Somewhere Over the Channel
The cabin smelled faintly of recycled air and coffee. I tried to focus on the view outside, the clouds stretching endlessly beneath us, but Xander's presence was constant—a silent weight pressing against my shoulder, my back, my nerves.
He ignored the other passengers entirely, as if they didn't exist. His attention—when it shifted at all—seemed to circle back to me. The realization made my stomach tighten.
I searched for something neutral. Something safe.
"Do you… travel often for work?"
"Yes," he said flatly. "Too often." He paused, gaze fixed ahead. "I'm usually in meetings. Not airplanes. Not like this."
I let out a nervous laugh. "Lucky me, then?"
His eyes flicked to mine—brief, cold, assessing—before returning to the window.
"Lucky to survive the week ahead."
I didn't press further. Too many things about him felt untouchable. Dangerous to question.
Minutes passed in the steady hum of the engines.
When a flight attendant leaned down the aisle, smiling, her attention lingered on me. A harmless glance. A polite moment.
Xander's posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
Not anger. Not irritation.
Possession.
The thought of other men noticing me—talking to me, laughing with me—darkened his expression in a way that was subtle but unmistakable. Jealousy, tightly leashed. Controlled. Never spoken aloud.
He leaned closer, not quite touching.
"You don't need to entertain anyone," he said quietly, eyes forward.
"I wasn't," I replied, heart kicking.
"I know," he said. "I'm reminding them."
Before I could respond, his voice lowered, deliberate.
"You don't like when I intervene."
I stiffened. "You embarrassed me."
"No," he corrected calmly. "I prevented a situation."
I turned toward him. "By threatening a stranger?"
"I clarified boundaries."
My pulse spiked. "You didn't need to."
His gaze met mine, steady and unreadable.
"Accuracy keeps you safe."
Safe.
The word settled heavier than it should have.
He rested his hand on the armrest between us—not touching me. Not quite. Close enough to be unmistakable.
"In Paris," he continued, "attention will come easily. Curiosity won't always be polite. I won't explain myself every time I shut it down."
"And if I don't want you to?" I asked.
His expression didn't change.
"Then tell me," he said. "And I'll decide if it's a risk worth taking."
I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.
Moments later, as if it were an afterthought, he added, "Connor will try to reach you."
The name sent a sharp jolt through me.
"He hasn't yet," Xander said calmly. "But he will."
"And you're so sure you can stop him?"
Xander didn't hesitate.
"By the time he understands the board," he said quietly, "you'll already be out of his reach."
The flight attendant returned with drinks. The moment fractured. Xander leaned back, composed once more, as if he hadn't just drawn invisible lines around me.
I stared out the window as the plane carried us toward Paris, unease settling deep in my chest.
I couldn't tell what frightened me more—
That Connor might still be fighting for me…
Or that Xander spoke as if the outcome had already been decided.
Arrival — Paris Airport
The airport buzzed with movement, light glinting off polished floors as voices layered together in a dozen languages. It felt alive—too alive.
Our driver was already waiting.
Tall, immaculately dressed, with a faintly foreign accent, he stepped forward the moment he saw us. His attention went immediately to me.
"Bienvenue, Mademoiselle Hollingsworth," he said warmly, bowing slightly before lifting my hand and brushing his lips against my knuckles.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. "Oh—thank you. That's very kind."
Beside me, Xander went still.
His hand brushed mine—subtle, unmistakable—before tightening just enough to anchor me in place.
"Step into the car," he said quietly. "Now."
The driver released my hand at once. I followed him toward the sleek black vehicle, acutely aware of Xander's gaze burning into my back like a live wire.
The door closed. Silence fell.
I glanced at Xander. "Why… why are you so angry?"
His jaw flexed once. "Because he touched your hand."
I blinked. "It was a greeting."
"That," he replied smoothly, "is my prerogative."
I let out a nervous laugh. "You're being ridiculous."
"Friendly gestures don't exist around you," he muttered, gaze fixed ahead. His hand rested against the doorframe, fingers curling slowly. "Not here."
Only then did I understand—it wasn't irritation.
It was jealousy. Restrained. Controlled. Dangerous.
And something else beneath it that I couldn't yet name.
Arrival — Valencourt Estate
The estate emerged from the countryside like a fortress—stone walls glowing gold in the late afternoon sun. Remote. Imposing. Absolute.
The car rolled to a stop a few meters from the entrance.
Xander stepped out first, then turned back to me, his expression unreadable.
"After you."
I hesitated. "You… what?"
"After you," he repeated calmly. "I'll tip the driver."
The driver opened my door with a grin. "Bienvenue, Mademoiselle."
He offered his hand again—light, courteous, lingering just a second longer than necessary.
I felt a small, unwelcome thrill.
Behind me, Xander's voice cut clean through the moment.
"Enough."
The driver released me instantly.
I turned, confused. "Why are you—angry again?"
Xander's eyes held mine, dark and steady.
"Control is a rare thing. Don't test mine," he said simply.
The words sent a sharp shiver through me—fear braided tightly with excitement.
I stepped inside.
Behind me, Xander shook the driver's hand firmly, slipped him a generous tip, and ended the exchange with polite finality. For just a second, I caught it—the flare of something raw in his eyes.
Possession. Restraint. A hint of something dangerously close to vulnerability which unsettle Xander.
The doors closed behind us.
The estate smelled of polished wood, lavender, and quiet intention.
I turned to him. "You're impossible."
Xander leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed, mouth curving faintly.
"And yet," he said softly, "you're still here."
I shivered.
Not from the cold.