Alexander's POV
Fucking hell.
Alexander stormed through the corridors, his grip tight on Elena's wrist as he yanked her along. She struggled, cursed him under her breath, and shot daggers at him with her furious gaze, but he didn't care. Not now. Not when everything was unraveling. She wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to be involved in this hellhole of a world. She was a complication—a liability. A thorn in his fucking side.
And yet, here she was. Messing up his carefully constructed plans, getting caught in battles that were never meant for her. Fucking idiot. Didn't she know this world would chew her up and spit her out?
"Let go of me!" she spat, voice sharp and edged with panic. She yanked at his hold, but he barely noticed. His mind was too tangled, too fractured with thoughts of what could have happened if he'd arrived a second too late. If the rogues had—
Shut up," he growled, not bothering to look back at her. He needed to get her somewhere safe, needed to figure out how the hell to keep her out of his life before she got herself killed.
"What is wrong with you?" she hissed, voice trembling with rage. "Why are you doing this? What the hell do you even want from me?"
His jaw clenched at her words. What did he want? He didn't want anything from her. He wanted her gone, wanted her out of his fucking head, out of his life. She was supposed to be just another assignment—a troublesome human to watch, to make sure she didn't stumble into things she shouldn't. But now, she was something else entirely. A goddamn problem.
"I want you to stop sticking your nose where it doesn't fucking belong," he snapped, finally turning to face her. His eyes flashed, dark and dangerous. "You don't know a damn thing about what's going on, and you're going to get yourself killed if you keep this up."
Her eyes widened, shock flickering across her face. But then, just as quickly, her expression hardened, and she glared at him with that fierce stubbornness he'd come to loathe.
"And whose fault is that?" she shot back. "You drag me out of nowhere, toss me around like some rag doll, and expect me to just accept it?"
His patience snapped. "Yes!" he roared, slamming his hand against the wall beside her head. She jumped, her breath hitching, but he didn't back off. "Because I don't have the time—or the patience—to play your little games. I'm not here to answer your fucking questions, Elena. I'm here to make sure you don't die."
Her defiance wavered, just for a moment. And in that moment, he saw it—the flicker of fear. But fear of what? Him? Fuck, that shouldn't have stung the way it did.
"And why do you care if I live or die?" she whispered, voice soft, but edged with bitterness. "You don't even know me."
He laughed then—a cold, humorless sound. "Exactly," he bit out. "I don't know you. I don't want to know you. But you have a way of getting yourself involved in shit you shouldn't."
Her brows furrowed, confusion replacing her anger. "What are you talking about? I—"
"I'm talking about you being in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time, every single time," he snarled, stepping closer. She pressed back against the wall, but he didn't stop. "You think it's a coincidence that every time something goes wrong, you're there? Huh? You think it's just bad luck?"
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Because she didn't have an answer. How could she? She didn't know—didn't understand just how deep she'd been dragged into this nightmare. Didn't see the blood on her hands.
"Let me make it simple for you, sweetheart," he hissed, voice dripping with venom. "You're a fucking disaster waiting to happen. And if you keep this up, you'll drag everyone down with you."
Her face blanched, the color draining from her cheeks. "That's not fair," she whispered, voice shaking. "I—I haven't done anything wrong."
"Yet," he said softly, leaning in. "You haven't done anything yet. But give it time, Elena. Because you're trouble. And trouble always ends the same way."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes wide and glassy as she looked up at him, searching his face for something—anything—that made sense.
But there was nothing there. No mercy. No sympathy. Just cold, unrelenting rage.
"Why do you hate me so much?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
His chest tightened. Fuck. Why did that question get under his skin? Why did it make something twist painfully inside him? He shouldn't care. He didn't care. She was a job—a fucking nuisance. That was it. Nothing more.
But then, those wide, vulnerable eyes—so full of confusion, so fucking lost—stared up at him, and he almost—almost—hesitated.
And that was the problem, wasn't it? She made him hesitate. Made him question things he'd never questioned before.
So, he did what he always did. He lashed out.
"Because you're a fucking liability," he spat, stepping back. "And I don't have time to babysit a stubborn little human who doesn't know when to keep her mouth shut."
Her face crumpled, pain flashing in her eyes, but she blinked it away quickly, straightening her shoulders. "Fine," she whispered, voice trembling but steady. "Then leave me alone."
He should've. He should've just walked away, left her there on that goddamn rooftop, and let her figure out her own mess. But he couldn't. Because no matter how much he hated her, no matter how much he wanted to rid himself of this fucking curse, he couldn't let her die.
Not yet.
"You wish," he murmured darkly. Then, before she could say another word, he spun around, shoving her roughly toward the exit. "But until this mess is over, you're stuck with me. So get used to it."
And with that, he stalked away, leaving her standing there, alone and trembling, in the dark.