I should've let him walk away. Should've let him slip through my fingers like he had all week—like he wanted to. But this time, I didn't. This time, I moved before I could think better of it, closing the distance between us in three sharp strides. My fingers curled around his wrist—not tight, not enough to bruise, but enough to stop him. Enough to make a point.

"This is getting old, Little Prince," I muttered, voice low, rough from the fight, from exhaustion, from something else I didn't want to name. "Running." The sharp scent of strawberries and pomegranate curled into the space between us, sweet and infuriatingly familiar. It clung to his skin, to his clothes, like he'd bathed in it, like it was woven into his very being.

It was fucking distracting.

It had been all week.

Every time he walked past, every time I caught the faintest trace of it in the penthouse, my body tensed with something restless, something hungry. Something that twisted in my gut and sank its claws in deep, making me grit my teeth against the sheer force of it.

Now, with him this close, it was suffocating.

Alexander stood rigid beneath my grip, his breath just slightly uneven, his pulse a steady drum beneath my fingers. "You've been avoiding me," I said. It wasn't a question. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

"You flatter yourself." I let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

"Yeah? Then tell me why I haven't seen you in a week." Nothing. Just that quiet defiance in his stance, the same fucking defiance that had been driving me insane since the moment we moved in here.

"You wake up at five every morning," I repeated. "Then whatever the fuck else you do to keep yourself busy. You stay out as late as possible. You don't come home until you're sure I'm asleep. Why, Kensington?" I leaned in just slightly, letting my fingers ghost over his wrist as I lowered my voice. "What is it about me that you can't stand so much?" He swallowed, but didn't answer.

Something sharp twisted in my chest. I should've stopped. Should've let him keep playing this little game, should've let him believe he had the upper hand, but frustration burned beneath my skin, mixing with something else—something dangerous. "Does it bother you?" I asked, my voice dipping lower. Alexander's pulse jumped. The corner of my mouth twitched. Gotcha Little Prince.

"You know, I did bring someone home last week." It was a lie. I didn't bring her here, I don't let anyone get into my space. Not even for a good fucking. I felt it before I saw it—the way his breath hitched, the way his spine went just a little too stiff, like he was bracing himself. I watched him, my grip steady, my own heartbeat a slow, deliberate thud against my ribs.

"She was beautiful," I murmured, my voice almost thoughtful. "Soft. Willing. Exactly what I needed after a long night. You would've hated her." His jaw clenched. I tilted my head, pressing forward just enough that the scent of strawberries wrapped around me again, fucking suffocating.

"I should've fucked her," I continued, pushing, needing something from him. "I should've taken her apart, made her scream my name until she forgot it. But do you know what happened, Alexander?" He didn't move. Didn't flinch. But his hands had curled into fists. My lips parted slightly, my breath coming slower, heavier. "Nothing." The air between us thickened, stretched so tight it could snap.

"I couldn't get hard." Alexander inhaled sharply through his nose, his throat bobbing with the effort to keep his expression blank. I should've stopped there, but I didn't. "Strange, isn't it?" I said, voice quieter now. "Sex was never a problem before. Never something I had to think about." My thumb dragged absently over his wrist, tracing the fluttering pulse there. "And yet, for some reason, nothing happened." He finally moved then, wrenching his hand free, stepping back as though my touch had burned him. And fuck, maybe it had.

"Poor Mr. King," he murmured, tilting his head, voice cold, cutting. "You bring home a woman, and suddenly your body doesn't cooperate. That must be so...frustrating." He caught my bullshit about bringing someone home but he knows it wasn't entirely a lie. I let out a low laugh, shaking my head.

"You have no idea." A beat. Then he hummed, eyes dragging over me, sharp and considering, gaze lingering for just a second too long before flicking away.

"I wonder what changed." I hated the way he said it. Like he already knew. Like we both did. I let go of his wrist. Immediately, he took a step back, putting space between us, the cold mask slipping over his features again. I should've let him go. Should've let him keep pretending. Instead, I smirked, slow and sharp.

"Let me know when you figure it out, Little Prince." His lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but he caught himself at the last second. 

"If there's anything else for keeping me with this tiresome conversation. I bid you goodnight...Atlas." I froze. His voice—calm, clear, and deliberate—cut through the silence like a blade. I looked at him intently, something tightening in my chest. He'd never said my name before. Not like that. Not ever.  No "Mr. King," no cold deflection, no carefully controlled title designed to keep me at bay. Just my name. And fuck if it didn't sound like a dare. He glanced over his shoulder—barely—just enough for our eyes to meet across the dim hallway, for the ghost of a smile to tug at the corners of his lips. Not soft. Not sweet.

Lethal.

Then he added, smooth and infuriatingly composed, "Consider it a slip of the tongue." Of course he knew that it was the first time he called me by my name.

Fucking hell.

And he was gone, the door to his room clicking shut before I could even respond. I stood there, chest tight, blood roaring in my ears, my name still echoing like sin from his lips. He hadn't given it to me. He let me hear it. I shouldn't have wanted to hear it again, him saying my name. But fuck, I did.

The second he disappeared from sight, the tension in my body didn't ease. If anything, it coiled tighter, wrapping around my ribs like a vice. My jaw ached from clenching it, my hands fisting at my sides before I forced myself to relax. I turned away, exhaling sharply through my nose, rolling my shoulders like that would somehow shake it off. It didn't. It never fucking did.

I ran a hand down my face, dragging in a slow, measured breath. This was getting ridiculous. I shouldn't care that he was avoiding me. I shouldn't care that he was slipping through my fingers like sand, evading every single attempt to pull him into something—anything. I shouldn't care that he strategically wakes up every morning to avoid me, leaving the whole place smelling like fucking strawberries, his head held high like I didn't exist. I shouldn't care. But I did. And I didn't know why. The frustration clawed at my skin, a slow burn that wouldn't go out.

For years, sex had been simple. It was a means to an end. A release. A game, if I wanted it to be. I never had to think about it. Never had to second-guess my own body. Then, a few days ago, I had brought a woman in a hotel. She was beautiful. Soft. Eager. The kind of woman I knew exactly what to do with. I should have buried myself in her, let her take the edge off, let her pull me back into that familiar rhythm of easy, mindless pleasure. But I couldn't. Because my body—my traitorous, disobedient body—wouldn't fucking respond. I had kissed her, touched her, let her hands roam over my skin, waiting for that familiar pull of arousal to kick in.

But instead, all I'd felt was...nothing. Nothing except an itch beneath my skin, an unease I couldn't name, something restless and unsatisfied twisting low in my stomach. And when she had pressed closer, her perfume thick and sweet, her voice a whisper against my ear, all I could think was—

This is wrong.

Not in a moral way. Not in a way that made any fucking sense. 

Just wrong.