Under His Jurisdiction

CHAPTER TWELVE

Nyx

Sleep refuses me.

I lie awake staring at the ceiling, counting the faint cracks in the plaster, listening to the quiet creaks of a house settling into the night. Every sound feels amplified — the distant hum of the heating system, the muted tick of a clock somewhere down the hall, the soft murmur of voices drifting up from below.

Alexander’s voice.

Low. Controlled. Familiar in a way it has no right to be.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes it worse.

Because now I can see him.

The way he stood too close earlier, close enough that I could smell his cologne — something dark and clean and expensive. The way his hand brushed mine when he passed me a glass, fingers lingering a fraction longer than necessary. The way his eyes tracked me across the room like I was something he was assessing… and resisting.

I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around myself.

This is ridiculous.

I am a guest.

He is my friend’s father.

This house is supposed to be safe.

And yet my body hasn’t received the messag.

Downstairs, I hear laughter — softer now, winding down. His daughter’s voice, bright and relaxed, followed by his quieter response. It grounds me, reminds me she’s here too, that I’m not alone in this house of sharp glances and unspoken tension.

Still, my mind betrays me.

I imagine his hand at my waist — not gripping, just resting there, steady and deliberate. I imagine what it would feel like if he leaned in close enough for his breath to warm my cheek. If his thumb brushed my jaw, tilting my face up just slightly.

I inhale sharply.

No.

I push the thought away, only for another to take its place — his mouth, inches from mine. The pause before a kiss. The restraint in that pause. The awareness that he could, but chooses not to.

That’s the part that ruins me.

The door down the hall creaks softly. Footsteps approach. I freeze, heart pounding, and a second later there’s a gentle knock on my door.

“Nyx?” my friend whispers. “You awake?”

I exhale, relieved and embarrassed all at once. “Yeah.”

She slips inside, wrapped in an oversized sweater, holding two mugs. “I couldn’t sleep,” she admits. “Thought you might be the same.”

I sit up, smoothing my hair, forcing my expression into something neutral. “Guess it’s contagious.”

She hands me a mug and sits on the edge of the bed. “My dad’s still working downstairs. He gets like this around the holidays — pretends to relax, then sneaks back into lawyer mode.”

I laugh softly, grateful for the normalcy. “I noticed.”

She studies me for a moment, eyes sharp in the dim light. “You okay, though? You’ve been… quiet tonight.”

Too perceptive. Always.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just… a lot of thinking.”

She nods like she understands more than I’ve said, then leans back on her hands. “Well, you’re safe here. You know that, right?”

Safe.

The word lands strangely in my chest.

“I know,” I say.

When she leaves, sleep still doesn’t come.

I lie back down, mug cooling on the bedside table, my thoughts circling again despite my best efforts. The house feels different at night — intimate, enclosed, like every hallway holds echoes of things that shouldn’t be imagined.

I picture Alexander again — this time not touching, just watching. Leaning against a doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The weight of his attention alone feels like contact.

In my fantasy, I’m the one who steps closer. I’m the one who closes the distance. I imagine the moment before our lips meet — the shared breath, the hesitation, the understanding that once crossed, there’s no undoing it.

My pulse races.

I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow.

This is dangerous.

Not because he’s cruel or careless — but because he isn’t. Because every interaction is measured, restrained, deliberate. Because the space between us feels chosen, not accidental.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

As I drift toward sleep, one last thought settles, uninvited but undeniable:

The problem isn’t that I want him.

It’s that part of me suspects

he already knows.