Under the Mistletoe... with the Mafia King.

Chapter 12 - You clean up nicely for a bodyguard.

C A S S A N D R A

The moment Alexander closes the bedroom door behind me, leaving me alone in the spacious room he said would be mine for the time being, I can finally breathe again, although the breath that escapes me is shaky and uneven, the kind that sits somewhere between exhaustion and disbelief. The room is beautiful, far too beautiful for someone who just had her entire life burned to ash, with tall windows draped in soft curtains and a bed so massive and cloudlike that it almost looks like it belongs in a royal suite, and yet even all of that feels like background noise because my thoughts keep circling around the same thing, the same memory, the same man who has suddenly become the root of every wild heartbeat I have had since last night.

Alex.

I sit on the edge of the bed, clasping my hands together as the memory of our kiss flickers through my mind like someone pressed play on a scene I have secretly been waiting to rewatch. I had kissed him without hesitation, without thinking, without caring about who might be watching, because that is who I am, impulsive and reckless and far too confident for my own good sometimes, but there had been something about the way he looked at me last night, something sharp and curious and quietly amused, that made me want to push every boundary just to see how he would respond. I did not expect him to kiss me back like that though, not with that slow burning intensity that curled deep inside my stomach and pulled a sound out of me that I have spent the entire day trying to forget.

And now here I am, in the mansion of a Mafia family, thinking about the bartender who is somehow not a bartender and who somehow managed to rescue us in a gunfight like he has been doing it his entire life.

“Every man I flirt with ends up being a walking red flag,” I mumble to myself, burying my face in my hands as the absurdity of it all makes my stomach twist. “I swear I have some kind of curse.”

A gentle knock comes from the door and I freeze, wiping my face and sitting up a little straighter as I call out a soft “Come in.”

The door opens slowly, and the moment I see him again I feel my whole body jolt in recognition, because Alex stands in the doorway with the same confident presence he had behind the bar, except now there is something quieter about him, something more controlled and intense, as if the events of the day have stripped everything playful from him except the way his eyes soften when they land on me.

“Thought I should check on you,” he says in that voice that feels like warmed steel, smooth but solid, and I swear my spine straightens without permission. “You looked a little shaken earlier.”

“A little,” I scoff lightly, brushing a stray curl out of my face. “Try extremely, horrifically, traumatically shaken. But thank you for rescuing us, by the way. I guess that is not something you learned while mixing drinks.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, stepping more fully into the room before closing the door behind him, and that one small action makes the air feel heavier somehow, more intimate, more dangerous in a way that has nothing to do with guns. “No,” he answers, leaning casually against the wall near the window. “Training came long before bartending. Bartending is more of a cover than a passion.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “So the charming smile and the ridiculous talent for flirting with customers is also part of the cover.”

“Not entirely,” he answers, and although he keeps his voice calm, his gaze sharpens slightly as if delivering the line with intention. “Some women were just easier to flirt with.”

My breath catches, not because of the words, but because of the way he says them while looking at me like he can see every thought flickering through my mind. I clear my throat and look away, pretending to study the pattern on the carpet even though I can feel heat warming my cheeks.

“Well,” I say softly, trying to steady my voice, “you clean up nicely for a bodyguard. Or soldier. Or whatever you are.”

He smiles again, slower this time, almost as if he is trying not to let it appear but failing anyway. “And you react well for someone who climbed over a bar just to kiss me.”

My head snaps up at that, embarrassment shooting through me like sparks. “I was drunk,” I protest.

He does not even bother hiding his amusement. “You were confident,” he corrects, pushing himself off the wall and taking a step closer, then another, until the space between us feels charged and painfully small. “And bold. And impulsive. And if I remember correctly, very determined.”

“ugh... I'm an i***t” I mumble because it is easier than admitting the truth, easier than saying that I have replayed that kiss more times than I want to admit.

“No you're not,” he answers softly, and this time his voice loses all its teasing. “None of this scares you the way it scares others. Not really. You are shaken by what happened, and you have every right to be, but you are not the type to crumble.”

His words hit me unexpectedly, leaving me unable to respond for a moment because he is looking at me like he knows me, like he has been studying me, not with suspicion but with genuine curiosity, the kind that feels warm and unsettling all at once.

I swallow slowly. “You say that like you are impressed.”

“I am,” he says simply, and the honesty in it pulls a sudden breath from my chest. “You fought back today. Most people freeze. You threw a knife at a man with a gun.”

I shrug, trying to play it off even though my pulse is hammering. “He was asking for it.”

“And you terrify me more than half the men I train with,” he says with a small tilt of his lips, and the lightness in his voice makes something flutter beneath my ribs.

Silence stretches between us, not cold or awkward, but warm and electric, the kind of silence that makes it impossible to look away from him even though I know I should. I take a slow breath and finally force myself to ask the question that has been simmering in the back of my mind since the moment he tore the doors open on that SUV.

“Alex… who exactly are you?”

He studies me for a long moment before answering. “I am someone you do not need to be afraid of. And someone who will keep you and Rhea safe as long as you stay here.” His voice lowers slightly as he adds, “Especially you.”

The meaning behind his words sinks into me with an intensity that feels almost physical, and I look down, suddenly unsure what to do with the way my heart is beating far too fast. “I do not know if I should be flattered or alarmed by that.”

“Flattered,” he says immediately, taking one final step forward until he is close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes. “Definitely flattered.”

I swallow hard, lifting my chin slightly. “You are very full of yourself.”

He leans in just a little, not touching me, but close enough that his presence wraps around me like heat. “And you like it.”

“I never said that.”

“You did not have to.”

My breath trembles and for one wild second the entire room dissolves around us, leaving only his breath, his eyes, his voice, his body standing close enough that I swear I can feel the warmth radiating through his clothes.

If he kissed me again right now, I know I would not stop him.

But instead he steps back slowly, his gaze lingering on me as if reluctant to pull away, and the absence of his closeness makes my breath shake with something I do not want to admit is disappointment.

“You should try to rest,” he says quietly, turning toward the door. “Things will feel clearer in the morning.”

And as he reaches for the handle, he pauses just long enough to glance at me over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a soft murmur.

“And Cassie… if you ever kiss me like that again, I will definitely not stop you next time.”

The door closes behind him before I can even think of a reply.

And I sit there, breathless, heart pounding, feeling something dangerous and warm bloom inside me.

Whatever is happening between Alexander and me is only just beginning.