Page 52 of Xander

I left the shower, avoiding my reflection in the clouded mirror this time. The bedroom was still empty, and the closet yielded nothing but a few clacking, foam-covered hangers. I picked up the sheet and wrapped it around myself, forming a toga of the sort that I hadn’t worn since my sorority-hazing days.

I hymned a prayer upon noticing a bottle of ibuprofen on the nightstand and swallowed down two pills with the accompanying glass of water. Did Xander return to the room to bring these?

My stomach growled, and I looked warily at the food. I bit into a croissant. Fresh-baked, flaky pastry. God. The glistening strawberries were perfectly ripe and still a little cold, but I bit into a grapefruit instead. The sharp, clarifying bitterness of it helped me focus.

Except, all I could think of was the blood and the shocked stares of Henry’s business partners as Xander split open his father’s face. Oh, God—the anger. I should never have gone with him after seeing that look of rage in Xander’s eyes, but in my panicked state, it had been so easy to let him take me by the hand. To somewhere safe, or so I’d thought, but now the ice beneath my feet was cracking open, and one misstep could drag me under.

There was a click as I finished the grapefruit, and the panel on the door went from red to green. I braced myself, but Xander didn’t come in.

Had the door unlocked itself? Or was this a trap?

After making sure that my makeshift sheet dress was firmly tucked in, I tried the handle again. This time, it swung out into a hall. I looked over my shoulder before stepping out into the hall and letting the door close behind me.

The floor was carpeted with a blue-and-gold fleur-de-lis pattern, and the walls were painted eggshell gray. Paintings had been hung at odd intervals, depicting what I imagined were the various Greek gods, posed to display their glory—and their wrath. I looked away from the one of Zeus holding a lightning bolt that looked ready to fly free of its frame and continued farther down the hall. But the images had caused a shivery sensation to trickle down my spine.

Most of the doors were locked, and I couldn’t imagine what they held. Other suites? Utility and storage? I wondered if I ought to scream for help, but—I swallowed hard, remembering the bite of Xander’s fingers in my wrists—what if it brought the wrong person running?

Eventually, my steps took me into what appeared to be a sports bar. There was a cluster of slot machines in the corner, the screens dark, surrounded by the inviting flash of neon lights. The bar itself was retro-looking, chrome and marble, with an impressive display of top-shelf liquor lining the shelves behind it.

There was another door on the left-hand side, and I walked to that—and skidded to a stop when Xander appeared. He was still wearing those sweatpants but now a shirt as well, half-buttoned as if in haste.

“Jordan,” he said, smiling at me pleasantly—as if anything between us could be pleasant after what happened. “How was your breakfast?”

I averted his gaze. “It was good, thank you.”

“You smell good.” He leaned in, nuzzling against my wet hair. “You should have waited for me to shower,” he chided playfully. “I would’ve taken you to the master stateroom for a bath.”

I instinctively jerked away from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning now.

I stared at him and his unruffled poise after fucking his father’s wife. Why wasn’t he shaken like me? Didn’t he realize how messed up this was?

Xander pulled back, his eyes flicking over my face before his gaze drifted to my mouth. He sighed roughly and pushed away in a smooth, fluid motion before gripping my hand and bringing me with him. To take me back to my prison cell, I thought, except, no—we were heading toward the bar.

“Let me make you a drink,” he said when I was seated uncomfortably on one of the stools.

I let out a rough breath, my eyes flicking around the empty room before returning to Xander. He brought down a bottle of Hendrick’s Flora Adora, pulling out a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

“What are you making?” I asked warily, figuring that if I could keep him talking, it might keep him from taking other regrettable actions.

“French 75.” He stirred in some simple syrup, eyes tracking my face. “I know exactly how you like it.”

Something inside me seized that he remembered my drink. Henry never remembered even after years of marriage. I stared at the fizzing glass with its slight tinge of blush.

“Where is my phone?” I tried to keep my voice calm, though inside, it felt like all my thoughts and feelings were a sharp jumble of broken edges. “I would like my purse and my phone—and some clothes.”

Looking at me thoughtfully, Xander reached into his back pocket and produced my phone. “The reception isn’t strong here,” he said warningly.

Xander propped an elbow on a counter and set the drink in front of me, keeping his eyes on mine. I ignored him, unlocking my cell. I had at least six new messages from Henry.

Henry: Where are you?

Henry: I’m sorry, babe. I made a mistake.

Henry: I’ll never do it again, you just pushed me too far.

Henry: I wasn’t thinking clearly.