Alex's pov
Alexander closed the door to his bedroom with a soft click, the sound deafening in the heavy silence.
He leaned back against it, head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut.
His chest rose and fell in an erratic rhythm, his lungs were still thick with the scent of her — Elise — and the taste of her skin lingering on his tongue.
God, he could still feel her against him, could still see the way she'd trembled under his hands, the way her breath had caught when he kissed her neck, the way her lips had parted in silent plea when he'd pressed his body to hers.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, letting out a low, guttural sound.
He should be disgusted with himself.
He should be ashamed for wanting his son's wife.
But he wasn't.
He couldn't find a single shred of guilt.
All's fair in love and war.
And this — this was war.
Alexander shoved himself off the door and crossed the room in long, angry strides, tugging at the buttons of his shirt with shaking fingers.
He stripped it off and tossed it to the floor, he saw the smeared colors of paint and passion staining the white fabric.
He stood there a moment, bare-chested, heart pounding against his ribs, staring at the bed.
His hand drifted down, unfastening his belt, undoing his pants.
The moment he freed himself, he hissed through his teeth, he was already painfully hard, already leaking with need.
He wrapped his hand around himself, rough, desperate.
A sharp, involuntary groan tore from his throat.
He closed his eyes and let the images flood him.
Elise, laughing as she smeared paint across the canvas.
Elise, flushed and breathless, her body arching into his.
Elise, moaning softly when he kissed her neck, her fingers tangled in his hair, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her standing.
He pumped his fist harder, faster.
Imagining her beneath him, her brown hair spread across his sheets, eyes heavy with want.
Imagining the soft, broken sounds she would make when he finally pushed inside her. The way she would scream and flush, lips parted and face twisted with pleasure.
Imagining how she would cling to him, desperate, needy, whispering his name — not his son's. Never again his son's.
Alexander let his head fall back with a loud growl.
His other hand gripped the edge of the dresser, white-knuckled.
He thought of her mouth — so sweet, so soft, the way she smiled even when sadness haunted her eyes. The warmth he'd feel with her mouth wrapped around his member.
He thought of her passion, the way she lit up when she talked about art, about creating something with her hands.
She was vibrant. Alive.
Wasted on a man like Carter.
A man too selfish, too blind, too stupid to see the treasure he had. Just like his mother.
Alexander gritted his teeth, his movements growing more frantic, more primal.
He should hate himself.
But he didn't.
It wasn't his fault.
It was Carter's.
He was the one who had crushed her spirit, who had let her dreams die slowly.
He was the one who had taken a vibrant, extraordinary woman and tried to cage her.
If Carter couldn't see the rare beauty in front of him, if he couldn't treat her the way she deserved — then he didn't deserve her at all.
Alexander's jaw tightened at the thought.
If Carter didn't fix himself soon, he wouldn't hesitate to take her away.
He wouldn't let her waste away in lovelessness and neglect.
Not when he could worship her down to the ground upon which she walks.
Not when he could make her feel alive again.
The thought — the promise — sent him right over the edge.
He clenched his fists, imagining her smile, the way her eyes used to shine.
She deserved more.
She deserved everything.
And he was done waiting in the shadows while another man dimmed her light.
No more restraint. No more silence.
He groaned deep in his chest as he came, hard and violent, his release spilling over his hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He leaned heavily against the dresser, sweat cooling on his skin, his body still humming with the aftermath of the climax that he was coming down from.
For a long moment, he stood there, head bowed.
Then he reached for a towel, cleaning himself perfectly, making sure not to leave anything.
His reflection in the mirror caught his gaze.
He looked wrecked.
Haunted.
Possessive.
Dangerous.
He stared at himself for a long time, until his breathing slowed.
Until the pounding in his veins and ears subsided.
Then he muttered, voice lowly with finality in his tone. "All's fair in love and war."
And this war had only just begun.