Page 47 of The Substitute Fiancée

His hair is a mess, as if he ran across the city to get here. His shoulders relax when he sees me, then his gaze darkens as it lands on my cheek.

“Who did this to you?”

“Who do you think?” I reply, turning toward the living room.

He follows, running a nervous hand through the back of his neck.

“Fuck… I’m sorry, Sam. This is my fault—”

“Stop,” I cut him off. “I chose this, knowing exactly what I was getting into.”

At that moment, Emelyne’s bedroom door opens again. She hands him a tube of ointment.

“Hi, Alexander. Here, put this on her.”

And she vanishes again.

Subtlety level: zero.

Alexander stares at the tube for a few seconds before recognizing arnica. I reach out to take it, but he shakes his head.

“No. Let me.”

Before I can protest, he goes to wash his hands and comes back. I watch him open the tube with almost solemn concentration, as if handling something fragile. He squeezes a bit of cream onto his fingers, then brings them toward my face.

It’s only then that he seems to realize how close we are.

I’m standing right in front of him, level with his Adam’s apple. I see him swallow.

Then he touches me.

The contact is incredibly gentle. Slow. Soothing.

I have to tense my legs just to keep myself together.

Neither of us speaks as he applies the balm to my skin. I force myself to stay impassive, to control my breathing, not to let the emotion he stirs show.

When he’s finished, he sets the tube down on the kitchen counter and goes back to wash his hands vigorously.

“What happened?” he finally asks, drying them with a dish towel.

I summarize my altercation with my sister, sparing the details. I don’t have the energy—or the desire—to relive every word.

He listens without interrupting, then asks cautiously,

“Why didn’t you come home earlier?”

“I had errands to run,” I answer vaguely, wanting to announce the good news to Emelyne and Mara first.

He nods, leans both forearms on the kitchen counter, then adds without looking at me,

“As you can imagine… the announcement was made.”

His voice is neutral, almost flat, but I still sense the tension beneath it.

“Show me,” I say.

He looks up at me, worry written all over his face, and I don’t like it at all.