Under His Jurisdiction

CHAPTER FIVE

Nyx

I spend the rest of the evening pretending I’m invisible.

It’s easier that way—slipping into corners, answering questions politely, keeping my head down while the house fills with people and noise. Dinner guests arrive. Laughter rises and falls. Glasses clink. The holidays assert themselves whether I’m ready or not.

Alexander is everywhere.

Not physically—he isn’t hovering—but in the way conversations bend around him. People defer. Pause before speaking. Adjust their tone. Even those who don’t seem intimidated are aware.

Power has a sound.

It’s quiet.

I’m halfway through a conversation with one of my friend’s cousins when I feel it again—that subtle shift, like air pressure changing.

Someone has entered my space.

“Nyx, right?”

I turn to find a man standing too close. Late thirties. Confident in a way that feels practiced. His smile lingers a second too long.

“Yes.”

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

“No,” I reply, stepping back slightly.

He doesn’t mirror the movement.

“I heard you’re staying here for the holidays,” he continues easily. “Must be nice. Blackwood hospitality isn’t something just anyone gets.”

The comment lands wrong. Too pointed. Too curious.

“It’s temporary,” I say.

He chuckles. “Everything is.”

His gaze dips—not overtly, but enough that my shoulders tense.

“I should—” I begin.

“Relax,” he interrupts. “I’m just making conversation.”

“I don’t like conversations that feel like interrogations.”

Something flashes across his face—amusement, maybe irritation.

“Fair enough,” he says. “Still, if you get bored—”

“Marcus.”

Alexander’s voice cuts through the space cleanly.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Effective.

Marcus straightens immediately. “Alexander. I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m sure,” Alexander replies.

He steps closer—not to me, but into the line between us. It’s subtle. Polite. Impossible to misinterpret.

“Nyx was just leaving,” Alexander continues.

I blink.

I was?

Marcus laughs lightly. “Of course. I didn’t mean to monopolize her.”

Alexander inclines his head. “I know.”

The dismissal is unmistakable.

Marcus mutters something about drinks and disappears into the crowd.

For a moment, it’s just the two of us.

My pulse spikes. “I didn’t need rescuing.”

Alexander looks down at me. “I didn’t rescue you.”

“Then what do you call that?”

“I call it ending a conversation you didn’t want to be in.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it was mine to correct.”

I fold my arms, conflicted. “You embarrassed him.”

“He’ll recover.”

“That’s not the point.”

He studies my face carefully, like he’s watching thoughts form behind my eyes. “You didn’t look comfortable.”

“I could’ve handled it.”

“Yes,” he says. “Eventually.”

The implication needles me.

“You don’t get to decide when I’m overwhelmed.”

“I get to decide,” he replies calmly, “when someone oversteps.”

Silence stretches between us.

I should be angry. I am angry.

But beneath it is something else—something unsettling.

Relief.

“You’re doing it again,” I say quietly.

“Doing what?”

“Taking control and calling it concern.”

His gaze sharpens—not defensive, not apologetic.

“I take responsibility for what happens under my roof,” he says. “That includes you.”

“I’m not a guest you need to manage.”

“No,” he says softly. “You’re not.”

That feels worse.

A beat passes.

Then, deliberately, he steps back—giving me space. An offering. Or a reminder that he chooses when to advance and when to retreat.

“I won’t interfere again tonight,” he says. “Unless you ask.”

I search his face for mockery. There is none.

“Good,” I reply, even though part of me wonders what it would feel like if I did ask.

As he turns away, I catch myself watching him.

The line of his shoulders.

The ease of his authority.

The way people part without being told.

This isn’t protection, I tell myself.

It’s control.

And the most dangerous part?

I don’t hate it nearly as much as I should.