Under His Jurisdiction

CHAPTER TWO

Nyx

Alexander Blackwood doesn’t look at me again that night.

Which somehow feels worse than if he had.

Dinner unfolds around me—voices, laughter, the clink of cutlery—but my awareness keeps drifting back to the quiet weight of his presence. He sits at the head of the table, posture relaxed, attention divided between conversation and his phone. A man who never seems rushed. Never flustered.

Never uncertain.

I tell myself I imagined the intensity of our first exchange. That the way his gaze lingered was nothing more than curiosity. I’m just raw. Sensitive. Freshly wounded and reading meaning into shadows.

Except every time I move, I feel it.

Not his eyes.

His awareness.

He knows where I am without looking. I feel it in the subtle pauses, the slight shifts in energy when I speak. Like he’s listening without appearing to.

“Nyx, you okay?” my friend asks, concern flickering across her face.

I nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Alexander finally looks up then.

Our eyes meet across the table.

There it is again—that calm, unreadable focus. He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t invade. He simply acknowledges me, like a judge weighing testimony.

“Long trip,” he says mildly.

Not a question. A conclusion.

“Yes,” I reply. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

He holds my gaze for one measured second longer than necessary, then returns his attention to his plate.

And just like that, I feel dismissed.

Relief and irritation twist together in my chest.

After dinner, I escape to the guest room under the excuse of unpacking. The house is too quiet. Too full of him. I press my back to the door once it closes, exhaling slowly.

Get a grip, Nyx.

He’s someone’s father. He’s older. Powerful. Completely wrong.

I strip off my coat and move toward the window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peer down at the street.

Alexander stands outside.

The sight of him hits me like a physical jolt.

He’s on the phone, expression hard, voice too low for me to hear. Snow dusts his shoulders, clinging to dark fabric like it belongs there. He looks carved from the night—solid, immovable, entirely out of reach.

Then his gaze lifts.

Straight to the window.

My breath catches.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

He doesn’t wave. Doesn’t react. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t already aware of where I was.

Slowly, deliberately, he ends the call.

And then—just as calmly—he looks away.

As if the moment meant nothing.

As if my pulse didn’t just race.

As if he didn’t just remind me who controls distance…

and who decides when it closes.

I let the curtain fall back into place, heart pounding.

This is going to be a problem