Chapter 57

Lauren

The movie played on the screen, a dull hum of sound and color, but I barely noticed. My gaze was fixed on the far end of the couch where Alexander sat, his posture deceptively relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the sofa.

His dark hair, slightly tousled, caught the soft glow of the television, and the sharp angles of his face—chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and the faint shadow of stubble—kept pulling my gaze back to him.

A black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and powerful shoulders, the fabric hinting at muscles that moved with quiet strength. His long legs stretched out in front of him, dark jeans hugging the defined lines of his thighs.

Even sitting still, his deep, piercing eyes held a quiet intensity that made the air between us feel heavier. Every inch of him seemed both refined and untamed, impossible to ignore as the flickering light from the TV cast shadows across his sharp features, making him look even more unreadable than usual.

We’d barely spoken since the kids had gone to bed. Silence stretched between us, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of movement or the soft clink of his glass against the coffee table.

I hated this.

I hated how easily he could command a room—even an empty one—without saying a word. How his mere presence could stir emotions I’d spent years trying to bury.

I should go to bed. Being alone with him was a bad idea. It always was.

But more than that, I hated the way he could still make me feel like I was falling apart, like I was nineteen again, fumbling with feelings I couldn’t control.

The words slipped out before I could stop them like my mind was desperate to fill the space. “Do you ever think about what we lost?” At least I hadn’t spilled about following him to the pack meeting the other night.

He turned his head toward me, his brow furrowed as I caught the slight twitch in his jaw. “What a question to ask during Mission Impossible.”

“You didn’t answer,” I pressed, clutching the throw pillow under me.

“All the time,” he said without hesitation.

I let out a hollow laugh, my fingers knotting in the blanket draped over my lap. “You don’t act like it.”

His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something sharp passing through them. “And what exactly should I do, Lauren? Cry about it? Would that fix anything?”

“No,” I said, my voice trembling. “But maybe it would show me you care.”

He sat forward, the weight of his gaze pressing down on me like a physical force. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t wake up every day wishing I could undo it all? Wishing I could’ve been better—done better—for you? For Owen? After everything we’ve been through? Really?”

His voice cracked on Owen’s name, and my heart twisted.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I gave up everything for him. Everything. And I lost him anyway.” My voice broke, tears spilling over before I could blink them back. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, his hand scrubbing over his face. “No,” he admitted, his voice low. “I don’t. But I know what it feels like to lose you. And I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

My breath caught, his words cutting through me like a blade.

I shook my head, forcing myself to look away. “This is temporary,” I said, more to myself than to him. “This… arrangement. It’s not real.”

He didn’t respond, and the silence between us grew heavy, the air crackling in the TV’s low voices.

When I finally glanced back at him, he was watching me, his eyes dark and intense. There was something there I couldn’t quite name—something that made my heart race and my stomach twist.

“Lauren,” he said softly, and the way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine.

Before I could process what was happening, he shifted closer, closing the distance between us. His knee brushed mine, and the contact was like a spark igniting a flame.

I froze, my breath hitching as his hand reached out, his fingers brushing a stray tear from my cheek. His touch was gentle, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me.

“I’ve held back, giving you your space. I want you happy, and comfortable here. But if you want me to show you I care, you need to let me in a bit. You don’t have to do this alone,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as his breath brushed the side of my neck.

I shook my head, my throat tight. “I don’t need your pity, Alexander.”

“It’s not pity,” he said firmly. “It’s never been pity with you.”

His hand lingered on my cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along my jaw. I knew I should pull away—knew I should put some distance between us before things went too far—but I couldn’t move.

The tension between us was suffocating, and…I wasn’t fighting.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice barely audible between my rising breaths.

“Because I can’t stop,” he admitted, his eyes locking onto mine. “I’ve tried, Lauren. God, I’ve tried. But no matter how far I run, no matter how much time passes, it always comes back to you.”

His words stole the air from my lungs, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

He leaned in, his face inches from mine, and I felt the warmth of his breath on my skin. My heart pounded in my chest, my pulse racing as his hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his lips hovering just above mine.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t want to.

My eyes fluttered shut, and I felt myself leaning into him, the pull between us too strong to resist.

But just as our lips were about to meet, his phone buzzed on the coffee table, shattering the moment like glass hitting the floor.

He cursed under his breath, pulling back just enough to grab the phone. I sat there, frozen, my heart still racing as he answered.

“What is it?” he barked, his voice sharp.

I watched as his expression darkened, his free hand clenching into a fist.

“When?” he demanded, his tone low and dangerous. He paused, listening intently before nodding. “I’m on my way.”

He ended the call and stood, his movements quick and efficient.

“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice still shaky.

“Uprising. A fight in the pack,” he said, his tone clipped. “I need to handle it.”

I nodded, trying to steady my breathing as I watched him grab his jacket.

He paused at the door, his hand on the handle. For a moment, he looked back at me, his eyes softening.

“I’m not done with you,” he said, his voice low and full of promise.

And then he was gone, leaving me alone on the couch, my thoughts a tangled mess and my heart still racing.

Wait… a fight? In the pack?