Chapter 17
Before I could finish, the scent of cedar filled the air. It was a rich, cool scent, one
that clung to the man as he leaned forward and draped his trench coat over my shoulders. The material was warm, and I could feel the lingering heat from his body in its folds. His scent, distinctly that of an alpha, wrapped around me,
overwhelming my senses.
“Did you really forget me?” He asked, his voice playful but tinged with disappointment. His blue eyes, now inches from mine, seemed to search my face for recognition. “You used to pinch my nose when we were kids, remember? You
used to call me cute?”
The memories came flooding back. “Alaric?” I blinked in disbelief, my gaze sweeping over him. This couldn’t be the same little boy I used to play with, the one who followed me around, calling me ‘sister. But those eyes–those blue eyes were unmistakable. “How did you get
get so tall?”
Alaric grinned, his face lighting up with a mischievous glint. “And how did you end up like this, Sis? Walking around in so little clothing at night–you’re going to get sick.”
I stared at him for a moment longer, then let out a breathless laugh. Without thinking, I reached up and gently flicked his forehead, the way I used to when he was a kid. “Little brat. Now you’re lecturing me?”
He chuckled, the sound deep and warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the tension in my chest began to ease. For a brief moment, the world didn’t feel so overwhelming.
“Well,” Alaric said, straightening up, “this little brat would like to invite a Hollywood star to stay at his hotel for the night. Would she be interested?”
glanced away, the brief sense of comfort slipping as reality returned. He knew.
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The Ex Husband’s Regret. [Shor
Chapter 17.
Of course, he knew. He’d seen through my situation, my obvious distress. Alaric was no longer the awkward kid I remembered. He’d grown up. His smooth words and easy confidence were a far cry from the boy who used to stumble over his
words.
“Looks like you really did grow up,” I muttered as we walked back into the hotel. The lobby seemed warmer now, though I wasn’t sure if it was because of the coat or Alaric’s presence. “Taking over the family business now?”
He shrugged nonchalantly as he made arrangements for a room. “Something like that. I’m just running things my own way.” He glanced at me, his expression. softening again. “But tonight, I’m just helping my sister.”
We stopped in front of a room. Alaric handed me the keycard, his fingers brushing
against mine. I hesitated for a moment, then moved to take off his coat.
“You can keep it,” he said, gently pressing my hand back down. His fingers were rough with calluses, the friction leaving a pleasant warmth on my skin. “Make sure you wear more next time. I don’t want you catching a cold.”
I stood there, feeling oddly vulnerable under his gaze. He leaned in closer, his finger grazing my brow lightly. “And next time,” he whispered, “clean up before you leave the house. You wouldn’t want anyone else to see this.”
He pointed to a small, dried speck of blood just above my eyebrow–blood that had splattered there when I struck Dwight. I had forgotten all about it.
My breath caught in my throat as the weight of everything I had done–and everything I had run from–crashed down on me again.
A crimson droplet of blood clung to my brow, like a lone, defiant mole embedded
in my fragile skin.
I ran into the hotel room and stared at my reflection in the mirror, reaching up slowly to my brow. My fingertips brushed the blood, and with a delicate swipe, it disappeared. Gone, like it had never been there, much like the last five years of
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my life.
The woman in the mirror–was that really me?
My dark hair fell in tangled waves, long and unkempt, hanging lifeless like seaweed dredged up from the ocean floor. The once–lustrous black had dulled, matching the pallor of my skin, which hadn’t seen sunlight in what felt like years. My reflection seemed ghostly, almost translucent.
It was like I was looking at a stranger.
My lips, raw and swollen, bore the evidence of Dwight’s cruelty–the bite marks, torn and bloodied, were healing, but only just. I pressed my fingers gently against them, wincing at the tenderness that lingered.
His voice echoed in my mind, rough and possessive. “You’re mine, Sylvia. You can’t
escape me.”
I shivered, turning away from the mirror, my hand instinctively rising to touch my neck. Faint, purpling bruises marred the pale skin of my throat, left behind by his hands. The hands that had gripped me so tightly I could barely breathe. Each bruise was a reminder of his power, his anger, his relentless hold over me.
The ExHashand
