Page 17 of Twisted Promise

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The heat was out.

The message arrived at one in the morning while Alessio was scrolling through comments on the show’s edited videos and live feeds. Surprisingly, the commentary was tamer than he’d expected. Most fans redirected attempts to dig into Anya’s private life and history.

Even so, his own fans noticed the double standard in how he treated Anya compared to everyone else. He thought he’d been subtle, sprinkling hints sparingly, but his body betrayed him through instinct and muscle memory.

Another message said to separate women and men into two rooms due to a space heater shortage.

His clothes clung comfortably while retaining body heat, and its fit allowed for movement.

Instead of heading to the designated area, he found himself in front of Anya’s door. The cold knob fought the circling heat in his palm, and it lost when he twisted the lukewarm metal.

How many times had he told her to lock the door before sleeping? And when would she learn to leave her ringtone on?

She slept like the dead. Apocalyptic survivors would’ve thought she was a corpse and moved on.

Most people assumed Alessio’s favorite view was the golden bullseye, but he never made archery into a career. It was merely a hobby, a time-passing habit that stayed with him for years, and a necessity to steer his unhealthy attention from Anya.

Without it, he’d fill his vacant rooms with her photos and things she left behind.

They were all wrong.

The moonlight slipped through the cracked curtains, casting a soft glow across her hip, and snuck through her delicate fingers. She slept peacefully, her blanket kicked to the foot of the bed.

His chest swelled heavily in exasperation.

Slowly, he knelt on one knee and brushed the fallen strands of hair from her face. Her faint exhale caused his fingers to stutter and freeze mid-brush. He cupped her cheek, his thumb gently tracing the delicate curve, and paused as the cold touch of her ear grazed against his palm.

This was his favorite.

At this perilous moment, Anya was his again. It was fleeting ownership and quashed the atrocious rage mindlessly escaping through his skin.

So vulnerable, so unaware, and possessively drowned in his scent.

He kissed her forehead, soft and brief. Her lips parted with a sigh, and she nuzzled into his hand. The tension in his chest barely fled after the next heartbeat.

A rough yank of the blanket from the bed didn’t wake her, nor did the swift wrap of her body inside the fabric. After she was hidden inside the blanket with only her head and feet visible, he took her into his arms and left the dim room, cozy from residual heat.

He was stopped in the hall by Meryl. Her entire appearance was disastrous. She smacked her tongue at the roof of her mouth when she saw who was in his arms, but she had her own blanketand pillow to carry, so she relayed the message about everyone staying in the common area until the rooms were prepared.

Alessio followed her lead and noticed they were the first to arrive. He could hear the ruffling and heavy thumps down the hall, but he paid no more attention to that than the camera on the wall.

Perhaps this was another ruse for content by the director.

Alessio put Anya on the couch and tucked her in the blanket, trapping her body in an intentionally awkward position. He shoved a sofa pillow under her spine for good measure.

“That looks petty,” Meryl resounded from behind.

“Really,” he expressed, almost lethargic. “I don’t want her to fall.”

“Right,” she copied his tone perfectly. “Just hope you haven’t forgottenwhoyou are.”

Meryl threw her pillow onto the loveseat and placed her blanket on her lap before she took out her phone to search for something.

He took a seat at the end of the couch where Anya’s foot was, his weight dipping the surface, and her legs straightened a little to graze the side of his thigh. The muscles tensed, and the tingling sensation at the back of his neck settled into his fingers despite him curling them inward to stop himself from grabbing her ankle under the blanket.

The loud noises from the hall stirred Anya awake, confusion staying in her blurry eyes as she stared at the backrest. Her head tilted down to find the source of the noise, and their gaze met with such comedic horror in her eyes that he assumed she was caught red-handed sleeping on the job.

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