Under His Jurisdiction

Chapter Seven

Nyx

The warning comes the next morning.

Not as a threat.

Not as an argument.

As a rule.

I’m in the kitchen alone, nursing a mug of coffee I’ve reheated twice without drinking. My mind keeps circling the same thought from the night before.

I’m justifying him.

The realization sits heavy in my chest.

Alexander enters quietly, coat already on, keys in hand. He pauses when he sees me, his gaze flicking briefly to the untouched coffee.

“You’re overthinking,” he says.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“You do that,” he continues calmly. “When you’re unsettled.”

I huff a breath. “You make a lot of assumptions for someone who claims to value boundaries.”

“I do value them,” he replies. “Which is why we need to clarify one.”

That gets my full attention.

I straighten. “About what?”

“About me.”

The air between us tightens.

“You’re staying here temporarily,” he says. “You didn’t come here looking for anything complicated.”

“That’s true.”

“And I didn’t invite you into my life looking for disruption.”

I bristle. “Then maybe you should stop involving yourself in mine.”

His gaze sharpens, not angry—focused.

“I will,” he says. “But not the way you think.”

I cross my arms. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I won’t touch you,” he says plainly.

My breath stutters.

“Or flirt with you,” he continues. “Or blur lines that don’t need blurring.”

Heat creeps into my face, unwanted and undeniable.

“You think that’s been happening?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I scoff. “You’re imagining things.”

“No,” he says. “I’m acknowledging them.”

Silence stretches.

“I don’t get involved with women who live under my roof,” he continues. “Especially not women twenty years younger than me.”

The words are clinical. Controlled.

They still land hard.

“Good,” I say too quickly. “Then we’re aligned.”

“Not entirely.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why not?”

“Because alignment requires honesty,” he replies. “And you’re not being honest with yourself.”

My heart starts to race. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“I don’t decide,” he says. “I observe.”

There it is again—that calm authority that makes everything feel inevitable.

“I won’t cross that line,” he says quietly. “But I need you to understand something.”

I swallow. “What?”

“If you choose to test it,” he continues, eyes steady on mine, “you won’t be testing whether I want you.”

My pulse pounds in my ears.

“You’ll be testing whether I can continue pretending I don’t.”

The room feels smaller. Warmer.

“That’s not fair,” I whisper.

“No,” he agrees. “It’s honest.”

I look away first.

“This isn’t appropriate,” I say, clinging to the word like armor.

“You’re right,” he replies. “Which is why this is the last conversation of its kind.”

He steps back, creating space again. Always controlled. Always deliberate.

“You’re safe here,” he adds. “But don’t confuse safety with absence of consequence.”

I lift my gaze. “Is that a warning?”

“It’s a boundary,” he corrects. “For both of us.”

He turns toward the door, hand on the handle.

“And Nyx?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever feel uncomfortable,” he says without turning around, “you tell me immediately.”

The door closes softly behind him.

I stand there long after he’s gone, heart racing, mind spiraling.

He won’t touch me.

He won’t pursue me.

He won’t cross the line.

So why does it feel like the line has never been closer?