Page 45 of His Cruel Exception

Alexander likes to pretend he's shy and innocent, and most of the time, I find his nervous little habits entertaining. But he knows exactly how to get under my skin, and what exactly to do to enrage me.

And goal achieved.

I'm fucking enraged.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

ANTONIO

I watch from where I'm sitting astride my Diavel as Davide drags Alexander out of the SUV, ignoring his protests and leading him to the entrance of the woods.

Alexander stumbles over the uneven ground, struggling to keep up as he twists in Davide's grip, and I can hear the panic in his voice even from this distance. He's wearing the same clothes he had on when I left the penthouse, and his glasses have slipped down his nose, but he's too occupied with trying to pull his arm free to adjust them.

He should have known his actions would have consequences.

Sometimes I genuinely think my little stripper misbehaves on purpose just to see what I'll do about it.

I turn the key and start the Diavel, letting the engine's deep rumble carry across the empty clearing before switching on the headlight. Its beam cuts through the darkness, landing squarely on Alexander as Davide releases him and heads back to the SUV.

Alexander raises a hand to shield his eyes, and I take out my phone, type a single word, and send it. I watch with satisfaction as he retrieves his phone from his pocket. His face is illuminated by the screen for a moment, and even at this distance, I can see his eyes widen behind his glasses.

Run.

He looks up at me, standing perfectly still while he tries to decide whether I'm serious, and I flash the headlight again before twisting the throttle.

The engine roars.

Alexander shoves his phone into his pocket and bolts into the woods.

Good boy.

I give him a few seconds before releasing the clutch and following him, the rear tire throwing loose soil as I accelerate toward the narrow trail between the trees. The Diavel's headlight sweeps over the undergrowth, picking out Alexander's figure as he runs ahead of me, his shoes slipping occasionally on the damp earth.

He's faster than I expected, especially considering how much time he spends sitting around with his nose buried in a book, but he makes the mistake of looking over his shoulder when he hears the motorcycle approaching and his foot catches on an exposed root. He nearly goes down before throwing his hand against a tree to keep him upright. He then pushes away from the trunk and keeps running, veering off the trail toward a denser stretch of woodland where the branches hang low enough to brush against his shoulders.

I slow the bike, watching him disappear between the trees, and follow the trail as it curves around the thicker undergrowth. The headlights reveal a narrow passage ahead, and I catch another glimpse of him stumbling through the darkness, one hand raised to protect his face from the branches.

He thinks he can outrun me.

I accelerate along the trail, closing the distance until the sound of the engine fills the woods. Alexander glances back again, his eyes widening when he sees how close I've gotten, and he changes direction so abruptly that I have to brake. The rear tire slides slightly over the loose dirt before finding its grip again, and I watch him scramble up a shallow incline, grabbing at the surrounding branches to pull himself forward.

“Alexander!” I call after him.

He doesn't stop.

I follow the trail around the incline and see him emerging onto a wider stretch of ground ahead. His breathing is loud enough for me to hear when I ease off the throttle, and he's beginning to lose speed, his movements growing clumsier as he struggles to find his footing.

When he reaches a fallen tree blocking his path, he hesitates and I cut off his escape. I bring the Diavel to a stop several yards ahead of him, switching off the engine as he turns and attempts to retreat the way he came.

I swing my leg over the motorcycle and go after him.

He barely makes it three steps before his foot slips on the leaves, sending him sprawling forward. His hands hit the ground first, but he still manages to strike his mouth against a protruding root, and the startled cry that escapes him cuts through the woods.

By the time he tries to push himself up, I'm already standing over him.

I haul him to his feet, pulling him against me before he can stumble again. He immediately starts struggling, his palms pressing against my chest as he tries to put some distance between us, but I drag him and push him back against the nearest tree beside the motorcycle.