Chapter 77

Scarlett's POV

Before I could even answer, Alexander pulled me into his arms, half-dragging, half-carrying me to the parking lot.

I struggled multiple times during this journey, but remained firmly restrained, unable to break free.

Despite his injured right leg, he was still incredibly strong, his arms encircling me like steel. His scent enveloped me—a mixture of aftershave, tobacco, and something uniquely masculine.

I realized I had unconsciously buried my face in his clothes, breathing in his scent, and I wanted to slap myself. How could I be so easily enchanted by him?

A wave of anger surged through me, but it was directed at myself for having such weak willpower.

It wasn't until he pushed me into his car that I stopped berating myself.

"What were you doing at the hospital?" he asked, positioning me on the luxurious leather seat and leaning close, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath.

His nose twitched slightly. "You smell a bit fragrant... Is it time for that medicine to take effect?"

His question was so direct, so unrestrained, just like how he approached everything in life.

I didn't want to waste words with him and tried to push him away, but he only squeezed in beside me and closed the car door.

Instantly, we were trapped in a confined space, his presence occupying all the air.

I found breathing suddenly difficult, as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the air, making me want to open my mouth and gasp.

"Scarlett, be good, don't be angry," he said, reaching out to scratch under my chin.

Is he really treating me like a dog? I widened my eyes, feeling a strange mix of emotions when he spoke to me this way—anger, but also some twisted sense of intimacy.

Nobody dared to speak to me like this anymore, nobody had the chance to.

But he did it so naturally, without hesitation, like treating a beloved pet at home.

I was about to bite his hand when he continued.

He gripped my chin, his eyes full of mischief. "Indeed a little wildcat. Still angry?"

His eyes were deep, gazing at me as if trying to see into my soul.

In that moment, I felt completely exposed, as if he could see through all the secrets and fears in my heart.

My irritation suddenly escalated. "If you have nothing else, please get out. I need to go home."

I needed to escape from here, escape from him, escape from his influence on me. Every time I was with him, I felt myself losing control, and losing self-control would lead me to an irretrievable situation.

He casually yawned, seemingly unaffected by my attitude. "Let's go together." He truly looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes deeper than I had seen before.

Looking at his face, I suddenly felt a wave of sympathy. He was also acting, also playing the Alexander that others wanted to see. Perhaps he wasn't so different from me after all.

I watched as he stretched out across the seat, resting his head on my lap. Just as I was about to push him away, he caught my wrist.

"Don't make trouble," he murmured. "You've eaten your fill, now let me rest properly."

He didn't even lift his eyelids as he spoke, already drifting into sleep.

As if bewitched, I sat still, allowing him to use me as a pillow. My fingers suddenly felt itchy, wanting to stroke his hair, but I firmly suppressed this urge. Watching him fall asleep on my lap felt intimate and dangerous, yet carried a strange comfort.

Why am I allowing him to sleep on me? I asked myself. Why can he influence me like this?

When I had my guard up against everyone else, he seemed to effortlessly penetrate my defenses.

This was dangerous, far more dangerous than any threat from Colombian drug cartels, because in the end, I might personally welcome him into my heart.

My eyelids suddenly grew heavy, and without realizing it, I too was affected by this sense of relaxation.

When I opened my eyes, I saw Alexander studying my face, his expression inscrutable.

I suddenly realized that his head was still resting on my thigh, and my hand was on his shoulder.

This intimate posture made me feel nervous in this moment. I shouldn't allow such intimacy, shouldn't lower my guard around him.

"You look peaceful when you sleep, not like someone with many secrets," he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of playfulness, but his eyes unusually serious.

I tried to shift my body away, but he reached out and held me in place, his strength irresistible, just like his presence.

"You have a bruise," he noticed, his thumb gently brushing the corner of my mouth, where Emily had hit me. "Every time I see you, you have new injuries." There was actually a hint of concern in his tone.

I suddenly felt confused. Why would he care about me? What was I to him?

"Maybe I'm accident-prone," I answered quietly, my voice husky with sleep, careful not to let him see my wavering.

He murmured, "You're like a trouble-maker, never giving me peace." Before I could respond, he leaned down and softly called out: "Little wildcat."