Page 58 of X: Command Me through Alexander’s Eyes

Chapter Twenty-Two

Iwake to find her gone. It takes a moment to process where I am, and then the events of last evening rush back to me. The disastrous party and my sodding father. Pepper fucking Lockwood getting her hooks in Clara. The blind panic when I realized Clara had left the party without a word. The memories after that are painted in vivid strokes of red and black. Clara against a brick wall, the taste of her on my tongue. My cock shoved inside her, showing her exactly where she belonged. Fire and screaming—and then her, drawing me back to the light. Her hands drifting over my scars. Lies and promises and boundaries crossed.

My hand skims across the thin fabric of my undershirt, wondering what she thought when she discovered the monster I hide beneath these clothes. She glimpsed him last night. I can never show her all of him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I mutter to myself, rolling to the side and catching a lingering hint of her perfume on the sheets. My heart thumps hard against my rib cage, and suddenly, I need to find her. Drag her back to bed. Possess her. Show her the part of me she can…love.

Bollocks. That part doesn’t exist.

And even if it did, it’s not enough to make up for my father and his rotten courtiers. She deserves more than this life—and far more than me.

I slide out of bed, searching the floor to find my trousers. I yank them on, not bothering with anything else, and go to find her.

As soon as I open her bedroom door, I hear voices.

“Should I make a plate for Alexander?”

The question is accompanied by the smell of eggs and bacon, producing a rumble of hunger from my stomach. Apparently, last night’s caught up with me.

There’s no response, but Belle must be speaking to Clara.

Flatware clanks against the counter, followed by a harsh, male baritone. “Alexander is here?”

What the fuck? I’m two steps down the hall, fists clenched when I remember that Belle is engaged. I search my memory, trying to recall to whom.

“Who on earth did you think was making that noise last night?” Belle asks.

A smirk dances over my lips. She knows exactly who it was.

“A neighbor,” her fiancé grumbles, and I can’t help feeling certain whoever he is, he’s a little man. One likely not capable of producing the noise Belle spoke of.

“What does Alexander like?” Belle asks, and I know she must be talking to Clara.

Why doesn’t she respond? Is she tired? Sad? Did I frighten her? Is she hoping I’ll leave without staying for toast and a chat? I wouldn’t blame her for that. But I’m hungry and determined to prove I can be a boyfriend, even if I keep cocking it up.

“Tea. No milk,” I announce, coming into the small kitchen. Clara startles, her hand flying to tug together her cream-colored dressing gown. I want to remind her that she’s got nothing I haven’t seen, but I think she might spontaneously combust if I remind her, judging from her deep, ruddy blush. She looks like every dirty dream I’ve ever had, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in waves, her mascara smeared just enough to make her eyes look smoky and mysterious. I have to force my attention back to the topic of food. “As for breakfast, everything. I’m starving. I worked up an appetite last night.”

My eyes meet Clara’s, and I grin so she doesn’t miss the double meaning. First, food. Then, sex. Things will be clearer after that. She flushes more deeply, dropping her eyes for a moment, but I saw her thoughts wandering to the same place.

She looks over at Belle, frowning to discover her friend staring absently at me.

“I’ll get it,” she says, grabbing a plate to fill it for me.

There’s something deliciously domestic about seeing her there, barefoot in the kitchen, bringing me food. It stirs something primal in me that wants to lift her onto the counter and fill her with my seed. I turn away before I can let that idea take root and spot Belle’s fiancé. Suddenly, I recall why I didn’t remember who it was because Sir Philip Abernathy is about as memorable as a piece of toast. There’s not a lot of options in the small flat for seating, so I take a barstool next to him.

He doesn’t bother to acknowledge me. I don’t bother to acknowledge him.

Clara places the plate before me, and I murmur my thanks before devouring it.

The women hang back, eying us, before Belle turns on Clara. “What do you want, Clara?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Clara waves off the offer, and I feel surprisingly wounded. She must be hungry after last night. If she’s not, I might be forced to throw her over my shoulder and drag her back to bed until she is.

“Absolutely not,” Belle says with a firmness that distracts me from doing so. “What do you want?”

“Some eggs and toast, I guess.”

She guesses. I shovel my own food more quickly, determined to make her have an appetite. But there’s something odd at play. I find myself stealing glances, catching them doing the same. There’s a lot being left unsaid, it seems, and I’m the one on the outside.