Morning Tensions
The sun cut through the curtains in sharp, golden blades, slicing across the polished floor like a warning instead of warmth.
I woke abruptly, heart racing, the quiet of the estate pressing in on me. This place was never truly silent—it breathed. Watched. Waited.
Xander was already awake. I knew it in my bones.
I rolled onto my side, staring at the empty space beside me, my mind betraying me with images I hadn't invited. Broad shoulders. Water trailing down skin. A towel sitting far too low on narrow hips.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Stop it, Amaiyla.
This wasn't desire. It was what happened when fear, proximity, and power were pressed together with nowhere to escape.
That was all.
A knock cut through my thoughts.
Sharp. Controlled. Two taps.
"Breakfast is ready," Xander's voice came through the door—flat, clipped. No softness. No hesitation.
"I—" My voice wobbled, and I hated it. "I'll be there."
Silence followed. No response. Just his footsteps retreating, measured and calm, like he hadn't heard the tremor at all.
But of course he had.
Breakfast — Where Control Slips
The dining room looked staged—too perfect. Sunlight glinted off porcelain and silverware. Pastries sat untouched, fruit sliced with surgical precision.
Xander sat at the head of the table, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his forearms. Relaxed in posture. Alert in presence.
His eyes lifted the second I entered.
They tracked me. Slowly. Intentionally.
I resisted the urge to cross my arms.
"Coffee?" he asked, already reaching for the pot.
"Yes," I said quietly.
He poured without looking at me, movements exact, practiced. When he handed me the cup, our fingers brushed.
Heat exploded up my arm.
I jerked back, nearly spilling it.
His eyebrow lifted.
"You're jittery," he observed calmly. "That's new."
"I just woke up," I snapped, then softened it too late. "Couldn't sleep."
"Mm." He leaned back slowly, eyes never leaving my face, as if I were a problem he hadn't decided whether to dismantle or keep. "Your body disagrees."
My grip tightened around the cup. "What does that mean?"
"It means," he said evenly, "you were already braced before you walked into this room. Shoulders tight. Breath shallow." His gaze flicked once—down, then back up. Deliberate. "You came in expecting impact."
Heat crept up my throat. "You don't know that."
"I know patterns," he replied. "And you're unfocused."
I let out a sharp laugh, more brittle than I intended. "You're not as observant as you think."
That corner of his mouth lifted—not a smile. A warning.
"Denial," he said lightly, "is loud on you."
I pushed back from the table just enough to create space, even as my pulse betrayed me. "And arrogance isn't attractive."
For a split second, his composure slipped.
Not much—just a flicker. Something dark. Charged. Gone almost as soon as it surfaced.
"Attraction," he said, voice lower now, calmer for it, "has nothing to do with efficiency."
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. The sound felt too loud in the room, like a challenge thrown down between us.
"You're impossible," I snapped.
His gaze followed me as I rose. Slowly. Unapologetically. Not predatory—assessing. Measuring what I'd just exposed.
"Yes," he said at last. "Control requires it."
The silence that followed pressed close, heavy with everything neither of us was willing to name.
The Push–Pull Tightens
We moved through the estate afterward—not together, not apart. He matched my pace without trying to. Turned when I turned. Stopped when I stopped.
At the library, I reached for a book on the shelf.
His hand closed over it first.
Our fingers collided. Stayed.
I inhaled sharply.
"You don't need that," he said.
"I can decide what I need," I shot back.
He leaned closer—not touching, but close enough that I could smell his cologne. Clean. Expensive.
"People don't get hurt because they make big mistakes," he said quietly. "They get hurt because of small ones."
I yanked the book free. "You're not my keeper."
His jaw tightened.
"No," he said slowly. "I'm worse."
I turned to face him. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"That I notice things," he replied. "Like the way men look at you. Like how you don't realize when it happens."
"Men?" I scoffed. "You're imagining threats now?"
His eyes darkened.
"No," he said. "I'm recognizing them."
The Balcony — Where It Almost Breaks
I escaped to the balcony for air. Or distance. Or sanity.
It lasted less than a minute.
He came up behind me, presence heavy, unmissable.
"You're spiraling," he said quietly.
I spun around. "Stop pretending you know me."
"I don't need to know you," he replied. "I need to read you."
"That's not the same thing!"
"No," he agreed. "It's more dangerous."
My heart hammered. "Why do you care so much?"
The question hung between us—too honest, too sudden.
He didn't answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was controlled but strained.
"I don't care," he said. "I manage."
"Then manage yourself," I snapped. "Because you're crossing lines."
His gaze dropped to my lips.
Then snapped back to my eyes.
"You crossed them first," he said quietly. "You just didn't realize it."
My breath hitched. "I didn't do anything."
"That's the problem," he replied. "You don't see what you provoke."
Silence.
Thick. Charged.
Dangerous.
For the first time, he looked… unsettled.
And that scared me more than his coldness ever had.
Xander — The Thought He Buries
This isn't interest.
It's vigilance.
That's what Xander told himself as he watched her walk away, back straight, chin lifted in defiance.
Interest clouded judgment.
Vigilance sharpened it.
And yet—
His pulse hadn't steadied since breakfast.
Her reactions were too visceral. Too immediate. Too… personal.
He didn't want her attention.
He wanted her contained.
The distinction mattered.
Didn't it?
Amaiyla — Alone With the Truth
Later, in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
My body still hummed where his presence had been.
The towel. The water. The way his voice dropped when he wasn't trying to intimidate—when something real slipped through.
I pressed my palms to my face.
This is wrong.
He wasn't safe.
He wasn't gentle.
He wasn't mine.
And yet…
My heart didn't care about logic.
It only knew tension.
And tension, I was starting to realize, could be more intoxicating than comfort.