Chapter 11
The following week. The days since her last encounter pass in a blur of routine and distraction.
By daylight, Alaura immerses herself in work, seated at the sleek white desk tucked beneath her floating bookshelves. Natural light pours through the apartment, washing the dark brick walls in golden hues as she moves between meetings and campaign strategies.
Marketing has never been about necessity.
Her parent’s estate and the trust fund left with it ensures she never has to worry about money, not in this lifetime or the next. However, she earned a degree in marketing and carved a name for herself in the industry.
And she’s good at it. The challenge, the strategy. The psychology behind what makes people want something.
Despite everything that happened over the weekend, she buries herself in client reports and analytics, keeping her mind occupied, preventing herself from thinking about—
The creatures that crawled out of the shadows that night.
The mysterious man that saved her.
But the distraction only last for so long.
Because the moment the sun begins to set, and the edges of her apartment begin to darken, the weight of it all creeps back in. So, most nights, she trains.
By six o’clock, she’s at the gym—an exclusive mixed martial arts facility nestled inside an upscale high-rise just a few blocks from her apartment.
This gym isn’t meant for casual workouts. It’s not lined with rows of treadmills or filled with people looking to kill time at their leisure. This place is specialized. The kind of place for serious athletes or those with enough money to pay for the best personal trainers.
Black mats cover the expansive training floor, absorbing the shock of every fall, pivot, surge of motion. Heavy bags hang from reinforced steel beams, their thick leather surfaces bearing the marks from years of fists, elbows, and shins striking with brutal precision. The air holds the faint scent of sweat and exertion.
Alaura’s been doing this since she was ten, long before she had real reason to fear anything. She’s not here to compete, to prove herself. She’s here because she refuses to ever feel defenseless.
Not after what happened at her mother’s house, at the warehouse, after the club. The way they all assessed her like a target.
In the hours between work and training, she sifts through her father’s journals. Searching through worn pages, fingers running over old ink, eyes scanning ambiguous notes, trying to stitch together a story that still refuses to make sense. There must be a reason her mother left these journals for her to find.
Alaura tells herself, maybe the more she reads them, the information will begin to piece itself together. So far, it hasn’t. She’s not even sure what she’s looking for.
Thursday evening, she decides to let herself relax, taking a night off from the gym and the journals. Enjoying the quiet comfort of her apartment as she curls up on the couch, blanket draped over her legs, book resting in her lap. For the first time all week, she exhales.
Just as the story begins to capture her attention, that familiar weight returns. The pull is subtle at first. Then heavier, like a gradual and intentional press against her senses. He wants her to know he’s here.
Her finger stills on the page, eyes lifting from the text, staring at the flames in the fireplace built seamlessly into the brick, their movement almost hypnotic. Slowly, her gaze drifts right, towards the rooftop across the street. The same place he sat last time, concealed by darkness.
This time, she doesn’t pretend to be unaware of him. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s beginning to enjoy his company. A faint curve tugs at her lips as she reaches out to him, the only way she knows how, a greeting.
Not with words or thoughts. But with feeling—a brush of warmth, delicate as the drag of fingertips across his cheek.
Xander’s response is immediate. A whisper of touch on the back of her neck, like the faintest graze of lips against her skin.
Her eyes flutter shut, breath catching at the sensation running along her nerves from the sudden intimacy. She knows he can feel the way her pulse quickens, the slight arousal building in her.
Alaura shakes her head, forcing the feeling aside as she sinks deeper into the couch. She turns the page, but her mind is nowhere near the words. Still, she lets him sit there, watching her until he decides to leave.
Friday night, she trains harder than usual, punishing her body until her muscles burn. Until exhaustion dulls the restlessness clawing at her thoughts.
Upon returning home, she showers and eats, the couch becoming her refuge. She settles in with her book, eyes dragging across the page, trying to ignore the absence of his presence.
Saturday night is the same. Hours spent poring through her father’s journals, forcing herself to focus on something other than the strange pull that is beginning to occupy the background of her nights.
Sunday night arrives and there’s a noticeable shift in the air. The space inside her begins to fill as that familiar weight pushes into her.
Xander has returned and they continue their game.
Over the next four weeks, it becomes a ritual. Every Thursday and Sunday, Xander sits on that rooftop, silent and unseen, watching her like his own personal late-night broadcast.
Alaura senses him the moment the sun dips below the horizon. The pull is never forceful, never demanding. Just there.
His quiet existence.
Each visit, he stays longer as if testing himself. His presence becoming the last thing she feels before her breathing evens out from sleep, or the fire in the hearth dies down to embers.
An occasional push of thought or feeling is the most they interact. He never moves closer. Never tries to speak to her. And yet, he always comes.
Alaura tells herself it means nothing. That he’s some nocturnal guardian watching from a distance, a shadow at the edge of her life.
But she also never closes the heavy black velvet curtains. Never tries to ignore him.
Because somewhere along the way, she’s grown accustomed to the unspoken comfort of knowing he’s near.
On Sunday, the moment Xander arrives, Alaura knows something is different.
This time it’s not just the weight of his presence slipping into her apartment, it carries something unsettling. A tension in his energy.
He’s stressed, the feeling of a man carrying the weight of a long week. And he came here, to her. She wonders if he realizes just how much he’s revealing by existing in her space—how clearly she can read him without a single word exchanged.
Leaning back against the couch, she taps her fingers inattentively against the book in her lap as her eyes flick towards the window. A slow, wicked smile curves her lips as a thought unfurls in her mind.
With a small huff of air, Alaura snaps her book shut and stretches, the movement drawn out like she’s considering going to bed early. There’s no subtlety in the way she stands either.
Her hips sway with more exaggeration than usual as she disappears into the bathroom, leaving only the sound of running water carrying throughout the studio.
She counts out the beats of silence before making her move.
Then, pretending to have forgotten her phone, she re-emerges, heading for the kitchen. Her path slicing directly in front the wall of open windows, wearing nothing but a towel.
And barely a towel at that.
The plush white fabric hangs dangerously low on her chest, a knot tucked precariously between her breast, leaving her cleavage bare to the light. The hem brushes indecently high along her thighs, a teasing glimpse of skin that leaves little to the imagination.
As though oblivious to the exposure, she reaches the island and plucks her phone off the counter. Checking it just long enough for him to get a good look.
Even separated by distance, she feels his gaze roam over her body, each lingering pause impossible to mistake.
The force between them becomes constricting, as if he’s trying to use that invisible thread to pull her directly to him. And the way he’s watching her now is different, dangerous. A hunger he doesn’t want to feel.
Her little distraction is working.
Suddenly, a sharp snap of restraint echoes through her body, like a man gripping the edge of a cliff, refusing to fall.
Pinching her lower lip with her teeth, she pivots gracefully and slips back into the bathroom. The door remaining slightly ajar behind her, allowing him to see just enough from where he sits.
Xander, now left alone with his imagination, moves spots, most likely repositioning himself for a better view
A smirk forms on her face that she doesn’t bother to suppress. She wants him to feel her amusement, the thrill of the game they are playing.
Alaura showers slowly, basking in the heated waves cascading down her body. She takes her time drying off afterward, dragging the towel over her damp skin, knowing he’s still out there.
Still watching, waiting.
Still holding himself back.
She wonders how long that will last as she dresses.
With deliberate performance, she walks back into the living room, settling onto the couch once more. Tucking her legs beneath her, she returns her attention back to her book as though nothing at all has transpired.
As if she didn’t just give him a show or left him with a thousand thoughts he probably shouldn’t have.
Her expression is serene, emotions carefully shuttered even though she feels the storm on the other side of their tether. The way he’s still holding himself back. Still wrestling with whatever part of him wants to move closer.
Minutes tick by, but when she turns the page, he’s gone. The faintest trace of satisfaction touches her lips.
Because she knows—she’s winning.
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