Chapter 3

VERONICA

The guest house was only fifty yards from the main building, but it felt like Alexander was in the room with me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those ink-smudged pages in his large, capable hands. I saw him reading about the things I’d never even whispered to my reflection in the mirror.

Sleep was impossible. The humidity of the summer night clung to my skin, or maybe it was just the phantom heat of his touch. By 2:00 AM, my throat was parched, and my brain was spinning in dizzying circles.

I needed water. And I needed to breathe air that didn't feel like it was saturated with his cologne.

I crept down the stairs, my bare feet silent on the cold hardwood. The house was a tomb of shadows. I didn't turn on the lights, I knew the way to the kitchen by heart. I made it to the fridge, the hum of the motor the only sound in the silence. I grabbed a bottle of cold water, leaning my forehead against the cool plastic for a second.

Thump.

I froze. My heart skipped a beat, then doubled its pace. It came from the back porch.

I set the bottle on the counter and walked toward the glass doors. The moon was high, casting long, skeletal shadows across the lawn. And there, sitting on the porch steps with his back to me, was a silhouette I’d recognize anywhere.

He was wearing a white t-shirt and dark lounge pants. In his hand was a glass of amber liquid—and in the other, my pink diary.

My blood turned to ice. He was actually doing it. He was sitting in my backyard, under my parents' roof, reading my most private shames like they were a Sunday tabloid.

Anger, sharp and hot, overrode my fear. I slid the glass door open. It creaked—a tiny, traitorous sound—and Alexander didn't even flinch. He just took a slow sip of his whiskey.

“You’re late for that demonstration, Princess,” he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel through the floorboards and straight up my spine.

“Give it back, Alexander. Now.” I stepped onto the porch, the night air wrapping around me like a damp shroud. “This isn’t funny anymore. It’s sick.”

He turned his head slowly, looking at me over his shoulder. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark, bottomless pits of his eyes. He looked devastating. He looked like the kind of man who destroyed lives for fun.

“Sick?” He stood up, unfolding his long frame with a grace that shouldn't belong to a man his size. He walked toward me, the diary held loosely at his side. “I thought the prose was quite poetic. Especially the part where you described the way my eyes look at you when I think no one is watching.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. “I... I was just writing. It’s fiction. It doesn't mean anything.”

“Doesn't it?” He was in front of me now, blocking the doorway back into the house. He was so tall I had to crane my neck to look at him. He smelled like expensive bourbon and the outdoors. “Because the girl who wrote this sounds like she’s starving. She sounds like she’s begging to be taught a lesson.”

He reached out, his hand coming up to rest on the doorframe behind my head. He was caging me in again.

“You’re my dad’s best friend,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “If he saw you right now—”

“But he won’t,” Alexander interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silky rasp. “Because you’re going to be a very good girl and keep our little secret. Just like you kept that kiss a secret.”

My breath hitched. The kiss. A year ago, at his New Year’s party. I’d been tipsy, he’d been brooding, and for five seconds in a dark hallway, the world had ended. He’d tasted like mint and power. I’d spent twelve months trying to convince myself I’d imagined the way he’d groaned into my mouth.

“That was a mistake,” I gasped.

“A mistake you wrote about for three chapters,” he countered, flipping the diary open to a bookmarked page. “You called it the ‘forbidden spark that ruined your life.’ Quite dramatic, Ver bear.”

“Stop calling me that!” I reached for the book, but he caught my wrists in one hand. His grip was firm—not painful, but absolute. He pulled my hands behind my back, forcing my chest to arch toward his.

The friction was electric. I could feel the heat of his body through my thin silk nightgown. My nipples peaked against the fabric, a betrayal I couldn't hide.

“You want the book?” he asked, his eyes roaming over my face, lingering on my mouth. “Then earn it.”

“How?”

He leaned down, his nose brushing against mine. “Go back inside. Go to sleep. And tomorrow, when we go for that ‘friendly’ hike your father suggested, you’re going to wear exactly what I tell you to.”

“I’m not your doll, Alexander.”

“No,” he whispered, his lips grazing my earlobe. “You’re my princess. And princesses have to learn to obey.”

He released my wrists and stepped back, the diary disappearing behind his back. He gestured toward the door.

“Back to bed, Veronica. Before I decide that breakfast is too long to wait.”

I didn't wait for a second invitation. I scrambled back into the house, my heart a frantic drum in my ears. I didn't stop until I was back in my room, the door locked and my back pressed against the wood.

My hands were shaking. I looked down and realized I was still holding the water bottle. I took a sip, but it did nothing to cool the fire in my blood.

He had the diary. He had the kiss. And now, he has tomorrow.

I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin, but all I could think about was the way his eyes had darkened when he looked at my chest. He wasn't just reading my diary. He was checking off a list.

And I was next.