"Rose? What are you doing here?" Alejandro's voice sliced through the quiet, soft but unmistakably surprised. He stepped into the circle of dim light, his tall frame outlined in the amber glow of the nearby streetlamp.
She turned slowly, dragging her gaze from the pavement to meet his eyes. Her face was pale, framed by wind-tousled hair, and her shoulders hunched as though she'd been carrying the weight of the world on her back.
Alejandro took in the sight of her—barefoot, disheveled, sitting on a weather-worn bench in the middle of an empty park in the dead of night. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked over and sat beside her.
"I should be asking you the same thing," she replied, exhaustion threading her voice. "Aren't you supposed to be in Brooklyn or something?"
He gave a small shrug. "I came here on a blind date. Went horribly."
A short, dry laugh left her. "Really? How? I mean, look at you."
Alejandro, with his tousled curls, sharp jawline, and those vivid green eyes that never seemed to miss a thing—he was effortlessly attractive. His Italian roots were evident in his olive skin and the natural ease with which he carried himself. But beneath the charm was steel—a quiet ruthlessness that reminded anyone who looked too long that he wasn't just a pretty face. He was mafia through and through.
"Hey, shit happens, okay? She was… not my cup of tea," he said, chuckling nervously, running a hand through his curls.
"Yeah, right." Rose rolled her eyes.
He turned slightly toward her, concern tugging at the corners of his eyes. "So… why are you out here on your own at this hour?" He paused. "And why are you dressed like that? You don't like those kinds of outfits that show too much skin."
She followed his gaze to the high slit in her dress, the plunging neckline that left her feeling more exposed than sexy.
"Well… Nikolai made me wear it. And now he ditched me. So I'm supposed to find my way back to the penthouse."
Alejandro's jaw tightened. "He's a jerk, isn't he?"
"An obsessive, annoying, and too-clean jerk who likes his things organized. I think he has something… what's the word? OCD or something."
"And you're the exact opposite of that," Alejandro said. "But still—why would he leave you out here on your own? It's dangerous. And with that dress on, it's worse."
"Yeah, tell it to that vampire warlord," she muttered.
Alejandro let out a low chuckle. "You haven't changed one bit. Still the same old Rose."
"I know. It keeps me sane."
They sat in silence, not the awkward kind but the kind that settled between people who understood each other. There was no need to fill the quiet. Her bare toes brushed against the rough pavement, her stilettos abandoned beside the bench.
After a moment, Alejandro tilted his head toward her. "Well… do you want to come with me? Or go back to your vampire warlord?"
She gave a tired shrug. "You seem to be afraid of Nikolai. So which option is best?"
"Well, considering all the rumors, I'd say go back to the penthouse. But for his and your own sanity—and to avoid you setting his place on fire—I'd say come with me tonight. Go back tomorrow when you've cooled down."
She laughed, a genuine sound, bright and brief. "At this point, you sound more worried about him than me."
"Nah. I'm more worried about you losing your mind."
She glanced up at the clouded night sky, then back at him. "Fine. But I don't have any money. And your dad's credit card is frozen. So can you give me some money?"
He arched a brow. "I left it at the hotel. Just over there." He pointed to a building across the street. She nodded her had and they both stood up. She picked up her stilettos.
They walked together in silence, Rose cradling her heels in one hand while her bare feet padded across the gritty concrete. The hotel was modest, tucked between taller, more glamorous buildings, but Alejandro had chosen it for its privacy.
Once inside the quiet suite, Rose immediately gravitated to the bathroom. The soft click of the door echoed, and moments later, the sound of water running filled the air.
Alejandro grabbed one of his oversized shirts and laid it on the bed. He sat down heavily, elbows on his knees, fingers laced.
When she emerged, her face looked clearer, cleansed of makeup and stress, her damp hair hanging around her shoulders. She wore the shirt, which swallowed her frame. Her legs were bare, feet still aching but cleaner.
She looked at him, then wordlessly crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, curling into the edge. Alejandro remained still, his back pressed to the headboard, watching her.
The silence returned, comfortable and real. He turned his head to look at her, his voice a murmur in the dark.
"Remember the first time you snuck into my room? You were eighteen. Running from Salvatore."
She let out a low groan, covering her face with her hands. "God. Don't remind me. That night was a disaster."
"He choked you, right? Too hard?"
"Yeah. Definitely not romantic. I think he was just trying stuff out and didn't know what he was doing. I pushed him off and ran."
Alejandro gave a low chuckle, his eyes softening. "You burst into my room like a hurricane. Makeup smeared, hair everywhere, talking a mile a minute. I thought you were going to stab someone."
"I almost did."
"I hugged you. Remember that?"
"Yeah. You said your dad was terrible and told me not to let assholes like Salvatore make me feel like I was crazy."
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed. "You were fire then. You're still fire."
She didn't answer. Just laid still, her breath evening out.
He glanced over.
She'd fallen asleep.
Alejandro watched her, the way her chest rose and fell slowly, her lashes casting faint shadows across her cheeks. She hadn't changed. Still wild. Still defiant. Still Rose.
He had liked her once. Really liked her. But she'd only ever seen him as a friend. He had never pushed it. Never touched her inappropriately. Not even when he talked to her about how sex was supposed to feel, how it was supposed to be safe and mutual and not a battlefield. Not even when he'd shown her videos or explained things to her late at night.
That was how much self-control he had. How much respect he had for her.
Now, he just watched her sleep, quiet and small in his shirt, curled on top of his sheets like she belonged there.
He didn't reach for her. Didn't say a word.
He just stayed.
Just like he always had.