Alexander Thorne’s POV

Phone in hand, I tap a slow rhythm against the steering wheel, my gaze fixed on the pristine lineup of cars in my private garage. My mind is elsewhere.

Dimitri left thirty-five minutes ago. I sent Garvey home, too, yet I’ve been seated inside the darkness of this car, waiting. A luxury shopping bag containing Sophia’s new dress sits on the passenger seat beside me, next to her takeout dinner.

My slow tapping stops, and my fist clenches tight around my phone. My patience is wearing thin, but I don’t have a choice.

I unlock my phone and stare at the message I was forced to send because this ‘busy’ Psycho wouldn’t pick up my calls. I delete the message after a few seconds.

My phone vibrates all of a sudden.

Caller ID: Psycho

I swipe to answer, putting the phone to my ear. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Is what I pay you not enough?”

“My apologies, Mr. Thorne. I was at a seminar. No phones were allowed in the auditorium.”

Exhaling deeply, I put a hand on my head.

She’s silent. It tells me she’s read the message.

“Have you deleted it?”

“Of course.”

I nod, dropping my eyes to the bag containing Sophia’s clothes. What happened between us on my sofa replays in my head. The way my heart rate had spiked as I kissed her, the droning in my head. I replay when I lost control—my hands slipping under her shorts—how I did, I’m not sure.

Keeping her close and occupied was the only way I could contain whatever happened to me.

“How did you stop?” Psycho asks.

“She stopped me,” I answer, tasting the bitterness of a bruised ego on my tongue.

“Isn’t that a good sign?”

“It’s not.”

“Do you want to come in tomorrow? I can fix an appointment for eight.”

“Make it one P.M. I have somewhere to be in the morning…”

“Understood. See you tomorrow, Mr. Thorne.”

I hang up, grab the bags from the passenger’s seat, and step out into the quiet garage.

The penthouse is quiet when I get inside.

“Sophia?” I call.

There’s no response.

Slowly, I drop the bags on the coffee table. The plastic bag containing her dirty clothes is still on the floor where she left it—a chaotic blemish on the order I’m used to. It’s giving me a headache.

I slip my phone inside my pocket, making my way to the dark room she ran into when Dimitri arrived.

“Soph?”

Still no answer.

I enter and stop, staring at her still, small silhouette, curled up on the floor near the wall, her breathing slow and even.

Brave of her to fall asleep so defenseless in a man’s home.

I drop to my knees to wake her.

“Sophia—”

A phone buzzes. It’s not mine. A glow appears, and I see her phone in her hand. Turned on. Not off like I told her to do earlier.

I carefully slip the phone out of her lax grip. She doesn’t even stir. After her wall and tree adventures tonight, passing out must have been inevitable. But I know her parents. Sophia is their world, and they’ll stop at nothing to find their daughter, including tracking her down.

Quickly, I enter the passcode and unlock her phone. Overstepping? I know. I just happened to watch her unlock it beside me on New Year’s Eve. It’s an easy one to remember. And just as I guessed, her location tracking is wide open. I turn it off.

There’s a chat message from ‘Layla’s Friend’: {You can just pay me for gas. Don’t bother about the full payment.}

A call comes in. Caller ID: Love Of My Life.

My forehead twitches. Her boyfriend? I can’t tell; there’s no picture.

I let it ring. Just as I’m about to turn off her phone, it vibrates again. It’s the same caller. I swipe to answer, staying silent.

“Sophia?!” Mr. Rose’s distressed voice scrapes my ear. “Where are you, my love? Are you safe?”

I take the phone away from my ear, staring at the screen in dark amusement. Her father is the love of her life. Interesting.

“Is this Sophia’s boyfriend?!” He barks suddenly, tone switching. “Did you run off with my daughter? I’ll find you, and when I—”

I end the call, turn her phone off, then return it to her purse, spilling out dollar bills and a passport. Then I take out my phone and open the chatting app.

There’s a message from Mr. Rose: {We caught someone who saw a man help Sophia down the wall. He said the man was her boyfriend. I’m deeply sorry for the trouble, Son. I’ll teach her better.}

I type my reply: {It’s not a problem, Father-in-law. We’ll all have breakfast together tomorrow. I assure you, she’ll be found soon.}

I return my phone to my pocket, take her purse, and scoop her effortlessly into my arms. Face plain and peaceful, she remains sleeping, unaware of all that’s happening as I carry her to my bedroom and lay her in the center of my bed.

Afterward, I change my clothes and exit the penthouse.

******

— — — —

Sophia’s POV

My body aches as if I’ve been climbed and hit. My injuries sting softly. I let out a breath, rolling over on the comfortable bed, crisp sheets. Pillows so soft and clean. Fresh, amberwood, cocoa…

I blink my eyes open.

For a few seconds, I keep my gaze on the white ceiling, struggling to arrange my fuzzy thoughts and see clearly. Nothing registers yet. Until—

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

My whole body clenches with awareness. It’s immediate.

I turn my head sharply. Dark eyes are already locked on me. My vision blurs, but I see. And everything comes rushing back—my failed escape, his penthouse, treating my wounds, our hot kiss, Dimitri.

Now, I’m waking up beside him?

What is going on?! Why are we in bed together? Under the same sheet.

The same sheet?!

An alarm goes off in my head.

I grab the sheet, about to lift it to see if I’m undressed. But he’s faster. He grips it from beneath, stopping me.

“I’m naked.” He utters.

What?!

“Oh my God!” I plaster my eyes with both hands, shrinking away from him in panic.

He moves toward me, and I feel the heat from his body.

Oh, God.

My eyes open to see him rising. The sheet falls.

I turn away quickly, eyes closed, squeezing the sheet. But without failing to glimpse black clothes.

He breaks into a short chortle. Nothing else. And slowly, I turn my head, opening my eyes halfway.

He’s seated, looking over me. I stare now, only to see he’s fully clothed, not naked, not smiling either. I should punch him in the face, but he looks sinfully dangerous; I might regret my action.

“Can’t take a joke, hm?” he says softly, lifting his hand to my face. He brushes hair from it, and I shiver. “Thought you were about to cry… Did the thought of being naked with me scare you?”

I swallow hard, my heart racing.

“You fell asleep in that room… so I brought you to my bedroom.” He slowly leans toward me.

I blink, determined to keep my eyes open.

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought here,” he whispers in my ear, then locks his gaze on mine. “I wouldn’t have sex with you without your consent.”

My stomach dips, heat spreading within me.

“And just so we’re clear,” he lifts himself above me, under the sheet, eyes not moving from mine. “No sex until we get married.”

He doesn’t drop his weight on me, but he plants his legs between mine, hovering above. The heat slides up my neck now as I struggle to keep still.

“We’re not kissing again, too.” He announces, his small, pink lips forming a beautiful pout when he says ‘too’. “But we’ll do other things…”

He inches close, face above mine, body above mine, his weight suspended. “Other things you’re not ready to handle yet…” His voice is barely a whisper—sultry, low, dark.

I feel his knee brush my thigh, where he bandaged, and my eyes finally close with a sigh. I turn my head away, suddenly wanting to feel his weight on me as I’m hypnotized.

Soft lips press under my left eye, kissing my mole.

“You’ve got beautiful, hazel eyes… can I see them?”

I oblige him, slowly opening my eyes. His face blurs, but I know he’s staring—into my soul, my mind—a mind I might be losing soon.

“Want a teaser?”

My pulse slams hard, aching with desires I didn’t know I possessed.

He waits.

After a long pause, I give him a slow nod, because it seems like the only option. My fingers curl tight around the sheet.

He adjusts. Then I feel his large hand gently part my legs, sliding up the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, agonizingly slow.

A gasp tears out of my throat. I shut my eyes.

“Open your eyes,” he commands softly.

I open them, my breath rapid in his face. My chest swells.

His thumb pauses at the hem of the boxer shorts, his intense stare soul-gripping.

“That’s all for today, Love,” he mutters and slowly withdraws his hands, a tiny, wicked smile playing at the corner of his lips as he swings off the bed. “We’ve got breakfast at your house.”

“Breakfast?” I whisper, still swimming in what he’s just made me feel.

He replies with a nod, standing tall and broad, moving around freely as if he owns the place. He does.

“Your phone was turned on,” he says calmly, walking away. “The ‘love of your life’ called. Thought it was your boyfriend. Was going to tell him you’re engaged… turned out to be your father.”

I sit up with speed. “You talked to my father?”

“Your father believes you spent the night at your boyfriend’s. That’s the story we’re going with.”

My mouth is open.

“We leave in thirty minutes. Your clothes are in the guest bedroom,” he says and opens a door. He slips in. As if on cue, his shirt falls off his back. And so does my jaw—to the ground.

Just before the door shuts, I glimpse a back so broad and toned – a masterpiece of ink and muscle.

‘He’s not the type of man you’d want to be entangled with…’ Dimitri’s words echo in this moment.

But looking at the closed door, feeling the lingering heat of his touch, knowing what his mouth tastes like, and even after eight months of staying away, all I want to do is get very entangled.