ALEXANDER
I don't know who the little shit thinks he is.
The moment the courthouse door closed behind us, I already regretted not walking out before the ink dried. But here we were, legally bound, ring on my finger like a tracking device, and the passenger seat occupied by a tiny problem with warm hazel eyes and a mouth that wouldn't stay shut.
He was pretty, I'd give him that. Objectively. High cheekbones, soft waves of light brown hair, skin that looked like it had never seen a bad day. The kind of face that made people want to protect him. Or ruin him.
I drove in silence, the city lights sliding across the windshield like indifferent streaks. He fidgeted beside me—small movements, fingers twisting in his lap, lip caught between his teeth..
The house appeared at the end of the private drive: two stories of sharp glass and black steel, bachelor pad through and through. No flowers. No warmth. Just clean lines and controlled lighting.
I pulled into the garage, killed the engine, and got out without a word.
"Get out," I said, not looking back.
Dashielle scrambled after me, dragging two small suitcases behind him like reluctant pets. I heard the wheels catch on the threshold, a soft yelp as he stumbled forward. I didn't turn around. Didn't offer a hand. Why would I?
"Idiot," I muttered under my breath.
Inside, the air was cool and sterile exactly how I liked it. Marble floors, black leather furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that showed nothing but night. I shrugged off my white coat, tossed it over the back of the couch, and rolled up my sleeves.
Dashielle stood frozen in the entryway, suitcases still in his grip, eyes wide as he took in the space. He looked small against the high ceilings. Vulnerable. Interesting.
"Rules," I said, voice flat. "Listen carefully. I'm only saying this once."
He blinked, then nodded quickly.
"Sex will be quick. No kissing unless necessary. No cuddling. No staying the night in my bed. No whining. Don't expect romance. Don't expect affection. I don't do that. I don't do gentle. If you can't handle it, that's your problem."
His cheeks flushed pink—immediate, bright, almost cartoonish. His fingers tightened on the suitcase handles until the knuckles went white.
I took a step closer and continued.
"This apartment stays exactly how it is. No throw pillows. No plants. No candles or framed photos of smiling families. No warm touches or nonsense like that. This is my space. You touch nothing unless I say so."
His flush spread down his neck. He swallowed.
"No unsolicited touching outside of sex. No hugging when you're tired. No leaning on me. No stroking my arm like I'm your comfort toy. I'm not."
"Keep your emotions contained. If you cry, do it in your room. I don't deal with tears. I don't comfort. I don't reassure."
I tilted my head, watching the way his pulse fluttered at the base of his throat.
"You don't ask about my day. You don't ask about my feelings. You don't dig into my past. I don't share. You don't pry. Curiosity is a privilege you haven't earned."
One more step. Close enough now that he had to raise his chin up to meet my eyes.
"And no illusions. This isn't love. This isn't partnership."
I let the silence stretch.
"I hope you got that," I said. "I don't care if you don't. I'm not repeating myself."
He stared up at me, lips parted, chest rising too fast. For a second he looked like he might speak—might argue, might cry, might do anything human.
Instead, he swallowed hard.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
"I… I have my own rules too."
I arched a brow. "Do you?"
He nodded again, more determined this time. Then he fumbled with one suitcase, unzipped it, and pulled out… a small spiral notebook.
A fucking jotter.
I stared.
"What is that?"
"Um… it's a jotter of the rules I wrote down."
I exhaled through my nose. "You've got to be shitting me."
He opened his mouth to protest, but I was already moving, long strides toward the bar in the corner. I grabbed the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon I kept for nights exactly like this one, poured two fingers into a lowball glass, and took a slow sip.
Dashielle followed like a determined shadow. "You have to listen to this."
I leaned against the bar, glass in hand. "I didn't say I wasn't going to listen. I just need a drink to tolerate whatever nonsense you're about to spout."
He gasped, genuine outrage. "It's not nonsense."
I hummed noncommittally and took another sip.
He swallowed hard, opened the notebook with shaking fingers, and cleared his throat.
"Number one: No sudden loud noises or changes in routine without warning. It… it makes it hard for me to process."
I stared at him over the rim of the glass. "Noted."
"Number two: Verbal consent and clear communication before any physical contact. I need to know exactly what's happening."
I tilted my head. "You mean you want me to narrate?"
His face went pink. "N-not narrate. Just… tell me. Please."
I sipped again. "Fine."
"Number three: No touching my hair without asking. It's… sensitive."
I almost laughed, almost. Instead I raised one brow. "Hair?"
"It's a sensory thing," he mumbled, looking at the floor. "I don't like it pulled unless I say so."
I filed that away. Interesting.
"Number four: Quiet time after long days. I need at least thirty minutes alone to decompress. No interruptions."
I swirled the bourbon. "You realize you married me, right? Not a roommate with a schedule."
He lifted his chin. "I know. But I still need it."
I studied him, flushed cheeks, steady hazel eyes, that ridiculous little notebook clutched like a shield.
Something shifted in my chest. Not emotion. Not affection. Just… curiosity. Sharp. Persistent.
"Anything else?" I asked, voice low.
He hesitated, then nodded. "Number five: If I say 'stop' or 'wait,' you stop. Immediately. No questions."
I set the glass down slowly.
Then I crossed the room in three strides.
He backed up until his spine hit the wall. Notebook still clutched to his chest like armor.
I braced one hand above his head, and leaned in close.
"Listen carefully, little boy," I said, voice quiet, almost gentle. "You can write all the rules you want in that pretty little notebook. You can blush and stammer and try to organize me like one of your patient charts."
I let my gaze drop to his mouth, then back up.
"But make no mistake. This…" I tapped the ring on my finger against the wall beside his ear, a soft metallic click…"means I own you. Your body. Your time. Your rules? They exist because I allow them to exist."
He swallowed hard. I felt it—the flutter of his pulse against the side of his throat.
"So here's my rule," I continued. "You can have your quiet time. Your verbal consent. Your precious little boundaries. But when I want you, I take you. And you will learn to love it."
His breath hitched.
I leaned closer, lips almost brushing his ear.
"Or I'll teach you."
Then I straightened, turned, and walked toward the stairs without another word.
Behind me, I heard the notebook slip from his fingers and hit the floor.
I didn't look back.
But I smiled just the shape of one.
Tomorrow would be interesting.