Twisted Love (Twisted, #1)(89)

I didn’t say any of that to Alex though.

“It’s cold and raining, and you’re wearing a dress.” No matter how fast I walked, I couldn’t shake him. “Sweetheart, please, you’ll get sick.” His voice broke on the last word.

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw hurt. I kept my head low, desperate to reach the warm safety of my flat. Eventually, Alex stopped talking and simply walked beside me, a glowering presence who ensured everyone else gave me a wide berth.

After what felt like an eternity, we reached my building. I didn’t look at him as I fished my key out of my bag and jammed it into the lock. Water streaked my face—from the rain or my tears, I couldn’t tell.

Alex didn’t follow me inside the building, but I could feel the heat of his gaze as I slipped inside.

Don’t look. Don’t look.

I made it halfway up the stairs before I caved. The glass pane above the door provided a clear view of the sidewalk, and although I was already in the building, Alex remained outside, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to his sculpted torso, and his hair plastered to his forehead, the light brown color almost black from the rain. He lifted his eyes until they met mine through the glass, his face stamped with equal parts anguish and determination.

And even though concrete, metal, and a good dozen feet separated us, he exerted a magnetic pull that almost convinced me to fling open the door and pull him in from the cold.

Almost.

I forced myself to turn away and run up the rest of the stairs to my flat before my stupid, soft heart got me in trouble again. Even after I changed and stepped into the shower, shivering, its seductive whispers caressed my ears and urged me to give in.

Ask him to come in. It’s dark and cold outside…What if he gets sick? Robbed? Hurt?

“He won’t,” I said out loud, scrubbing my skin so hard it turned red. “Alex Volkov doesn’t get hurt. He does the hurting.”

The image of him standing miserably in the rain flashed through my mind, and I faltered before scrubbing harder. I didn’t make him follow me or stand out there. If he caught a cold or…or hypothermia, that was on him.

I switched off the water with shaky hands.

I spent the next few hours eating instant ramen and attempting to edit photos, but I eventually gave up. I couldn’t focus, and my eyes ached from crying. I just wanted to pretend this afternoon never happened.

I called it an early night and climbed into bed, resisting the urge to look out the window. It’d been hours. It wasn’t like Alex would still be out there.





42





Ava





Alex lived up to his promise-slash-threat of showing up every. Single. Day. He was there in the morning when I left for my fellowship, usually with a vanilla latte and blueberry scone—my favorites. He was there to walk me home after my workshops. Other times, especially when I was with other people or exploring the city on the weekends, he was less conspicuous, but he was there. I felt his presence even though I couldn’t see him.

I never thought Alex Volkov would become my stalker, but there we were.

On top of that, gifts arrived every day. By the boatload.

By the end of the first week, my apartment looked like I was opening an indoor garden. I donated everything to a local hospital—the roses of every color, the vivid purple orchids and sweet white lilies, the cheerful sunflowers and delicate peonies.

By the end of the second week, I owned enough jewelry to make the Duchess of Cambridge green with envy—at least, until I pawned them. The sum I received for the pile of diamond earrings, sapphire bracelets and ruby necklaces made my eyes water, but I donated most of it to various charities and saved the rest for living expenses. London wasn’t cheap, and the fellowship stipend wasn’t exactly princely.

By the end of the third week, I was knee-deep in gourmet chocolates, gift baskets, and custom-made desserts.

I didn’t care about fancy jewels or flowers, so those gifts didn’t matter to me. It was the little things that tore holes in my heart—the red velvet cupcakes that spelled out I’m Sorry; a rare, vintage Japanese camera I’d searched for for years but had never found for sale; the framed photo of Alex and me at the fall festival. I hadn’t realized he’d kept a copy from the photo booth.

Why would I need photos?

For the memories. To remember people and events?

I don’t need photos for that.

By the end of the fourth week, I was torn between tearing my hair out in frustration and crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide.

“We need to talk,” I said Friday afternoon after I left my lighting techniques workshop. Alex lounged against a light pole outside the building, infuriatingly gorgeous in jeans and a white T-shirt. Aviators hid his eyes, but the intensity of his gaze seared through the glasses and burned into my flesh.

A group of passing schoolgirls looked him over, giggling and whispering amongst themselves.

“He is so hot,” I heard one of them squeal when she thought she was out of earshot.

Spoiler: she wasn’t.

I wished I could run after her and give her some unsolicited big-sister advice. Don’t fall for guys who look like they could break your heart because chances are, they will.

“Sure,” Alex said, unfazed by the girls’ attention. He was probably used to it. While he followed me around London, women followed him around until we all looked like we were playing a giant game of Follow the Leader. “We can talk over dinner.” His mouth twitched when I glared at him.