Page 137 of Stranger to Love

I felt a flash of dry, sharp amusement. "He’s hungover and realising he’s insulted the most dangerous person he knows. He’s exactly as 'okay' as he deserves to be."

I slid out of bed, adjusting my robe with a sharp, elegant tug of the silk. I walked to the door, my posture regal and formidable. I turned the lock with a deliberate click, opening the door only a few inches—my body serving as a literal, unbreachable barrier between the hallway and the sanctuary of our bed.

"Speak," I commanded.

Richard hesitated, his shadow flickering through the gap. "Can we... I don't know, sit down or something? My head is killing me, CC, and I just—"

I did not even let him finish. I began to pull the door shut, my face a mask of absolute indifference. "You have thirty seconds left."

"Fine! Fine, okay!" he blurted out, his voice cracking with desperation. "Look, I’m sorry, alright? I’m sorry for the way I turned up, and I’m sorry for what I said. I didn't mean to insult whoever it is you're... you know, sleeping with."

The air in the room turned sub-zero. I felt my knuckles turn white on the door handle. My voice dropped to a lethal, quiet hiss. "If you refer to her as 'whoever I'm sleeping with' one more time, Richard, I will personally ensure that you are sleeping on the motorway."

"I’m sorry! I’m a prick, I know!" He sounded on the verge of a breakdown, the bravado completely purged by his hangover and his fear. "I lost my job, okay? Three weeks ago. I couldn't make rent, and I... I have nowhere else to go."

His voice dropped to a broken whisper. "You know Mum and Dad. They’d never let me move back in, not after the last time. They'd just lecture me until I lost my mind." He let out a bitter, hollow laugh. "And 'Perfect Peter' has his wife and his kids and his pristine life; he’d never help a failure like me. You’re the only one left, CC. Please."

I stood perfectly still. The silence stretched out, long and agonising, as I weighed my protective instinct for our privacy against the pathetic, undeniable reality of his desperation. I did not look back at Alex, but I could feel her eyes on me, watching the internal battle.

"You're pathetic, Richard," I said finally, the ice in my voice thawing into exhausted resignation.

"I know," he mumble. "I really do."

"Kitchen. Now," I ordered, my voice dropping like a heavy iron gavel. "Not another word until I come downstairs."

I shut the door before he could stammer a thank you, the lock clicking home with a sharp, final snick.

I let out a sharp, frustrated huff and moved to my wardrobe. I was no longer the woman of the morning; I was a woman of action. I slid into dark jeans and pulled a burgundy cashmere jumper over my head.

"Sit down, Alex," I said, my voice a firm, quiet command as she began to scramble out of bed. She blinked, lowering herself back onto the edge of the mattress. I reached into a separate drawer and pulled out a stack of fresh fabric—slim-fit jeans and a soft, dark blue jumper. I set them down beside her.

She bit her lip, a hiss of pain escaping as the movement tugged at the broken skin I had claimed last night. She stared at the clothes, her eyes widening. "You bought these for me? You have clothes for me here?"

I didn't answer immediately. I knelt between her knees, cupping her face. My thumb brushed gently over her wounded lip, my eyes darkening as I inspected the vivid violet bruises scattered across her neck.

"I like the idea of you having everything you need under my roof," I murmured, my voice softening into a possessive purr. I leaned in, pressing a ghost of a kiss to her lip. "I'm not going to force you to stay up here like a secret, Alex. I won't hide you away. But you are marked, and my brother is an idiot. If you want to stay here, under the covers where it’s safe, you can."

Her gaze flicked from the blue jumper to my eyes, the hesitation melting into something fierce. "I don't want to hide," she said, her voice steadying. "If you'll let me... I’d like to go down with you."

A profound warmth settled behind my ribs—the sheer satisfaction of watching her step into her own strength. "Good girl," I said smoothly. "Get dressed, darling. Let’s go remind my brother who this house actually belongs to."

In the kitchen, Richard was hunched over the dining table, clutching at his skull. As we entered, he looked up, his eyes widening at the sight of us.

I did not give him a chance to speak. I guided Alex to the island, my hand resting firmly and possessively on the small of her back. I pulled out a bar stool, ensuring she was seated comfortably—a clear, physical boundary between her and the mess of a man at my dining table.

I ignored him entirely, moving with practiced grace to make coffee. I didn't hide my affection; I reached over to brush a stray lock of hair away from a particularly dark mark on Alex’s shoulder, my fingers lingering there for a second longer than necessary.

I set a fresh latte in front of her, offering her a soft, private warmth before turning to address the intruder. The warmth vanished instantly. I looked at Richard, my expression flattening into cold, terrifyingly professional indifference. I leaned back against the counter, arms crossed.

"You’re lucky Alex has a kinder heart than I do," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the refrigerator. "Because left to my own devices, you’d be calling a taxi to a hostel right now."

Richard swallowed hard, looking smaller than he had this morning. "I... I appreciate it. Truly. And I'm sorry, again. To both of you."

"You should be," I replied, my voice dropping an octave. "You are here as a guest under very specific conditions. You will stay in the guest room. You will clean up after yourself. And most importantly..."

I moved to Alex’s side, resting a hand on her hip, my fingers curling into the soft wool of her jumper.

"...You will show Alex the respect she is owed. This is not a guest house to her. This is a home. If I hear one more comment, or see one more 'look,' you are gone. No second chances. Do I make myself clear?"