Under His Jurisdiction

CHAPTER SIX

Nyx

I don’t tell anyone what happened.

Not fully.

When my friend asks if Marcus bothered me, I shrug it off. “He was just… awkward.”

She frowns. “Dad didn’t say anything weird, did he?”

“No,” I answer too quickly. Then soften it. “He just stepped in. Politely.”

Her expression shifts—relief, not concern. “That sounds like him.”

Something tightens in my chest.

That sounds like him.

The evening carries on, but the mood has changed for me. I’m hyper-aware now—of where I stand, who speaks to me, how often Alexander’s name comes up in conversation.

Too often.

“He’s terrifying in court,” someone says near the drinks table.

“Brilliant,” another adds.

“Unforgiving,” a third murmurs, almost admiringly.

I find myself bristling.

“He’s not unforgiving,” I say before I can stop myself.

Three pairs of eyes turn toward me.

“Oh?” someone prompts, amused.

I hesitate. “He’s… precise.”

The word feels right. Measured. Fair.

They nod, accepting it easily, and move on.

But I stay frozen, pulse thudding.

Why did I defend him?

I barely know him.

Later, I escape to the kitchen, needing quiet. I lean against the counter, staring at nothing, replaying the way Alexander stepped between Marcus and me. The way he didn’t touch me. Didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t ask if I wanted help.

He just knew.

And that should bother me more than it does.

“Careful,” a voice says calmly. “You’re going to bruise your ribs leaning like that.”

I straighten, startled.

Alexander stands a few feet away, jacket back on now, tie loosened. He looks less formal like this. More dangerous.

“I was fine,” I say automatically.

“I know,” he replies. “It was an observation, not an intervention.”

I scoff lightly. “You’re very particular about your distinctions.”

“They matter.”

“Do they?”

“Yes.”

He pours himself a glass of water, movements unhurried. “You defended me earlier.”

My stomach drops. “I did not.”

“You did,” he says, turning slightly toward me. “You called me precise.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “People exaggerate.”

“They do,” he agrees. “You corrected them.”

“I don’t like unfair narratives.”

His gaze sharpens, something intent flashing beneath the calm. “Even when they’re about me?”

I hesitate.

“I don’t think you’re cruel,” I admit quietly.

Something shifts then. Not his posture—his focus.

“That’s generous of you,” he says.

“It’s honest.”

Silence stretches.

“You shouldn’t feel obligated to justify my actions,” he continues. “Especially to yourself.”

I laugh softly. “Is that legal advice?”

“No,” he says. “Personal.”

That lands harder than it should.

“I didn’t ask you to step in,” I say again, weaker this time.

“I know.”

“And you’ll do it again.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “If I believe you’re uncomfortable.”

“You don’t always get it right.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I don’t ignore patterns.”

I look away, heart racing. “You talk like I’m a case study.”

“I talk like someone who pays attention,” he corrects.

The distinction feels thin.

“You don’t scare me,” I say suddenly.

The words surprise both of us.

His expression doesn’t change, but the air does.

“Good,” he replies after a moment. “Then you’ll be honest when I cross a line.”

“And if I’m not?”

“Then,” he says quietly, “that’s on me.”

The answer should unsettle me.

Instead, it settles something inside my chest I didn’t realize was unstable.

As he steps past me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, restrained—I realize something dangerous.

I’m no longer just reacting to Alexander Blackwood.

I’m justifying him.

And that might be the moment everything starts to unravel.