DASHIELL
The ride home was silent.
Alexander had said nothing more after that flat "Yes, most of it is true." He simply told me to finish my shift, turned around, and walked back into the hospital. I followed him like a lost puppy, the gift bag still clutched awkwardly in my hands. The silence in the car now felt suffocating. Heavy. Like the air itself was pressing down on my chest.
I kept rubbing my feet together in the passenger seat, toes curling and uncurling inside my shoes. My fingers tapped rapidly against my thigh.
"Alexander," I tried, voice quiet. "Are you angry with me?"
"No," he answered, eyes fixed on the road. His voice was completely flat.
I waited. He said nothing else.
I tried again. "You are not talking to me."
"I am driving."
That was all. Cold. Emotionless.
I hated it. The lack of information made my brain spiral. I did not know how to fix this. I did not even know if there was something to fix. By the time we pulled into the driveway, my stomach felt tight and my chest heavy with a feeling I could not name properly.
When we got home, Alexander parked the car and walked straight inside without waiting for me. He went directly to his study and closed the door.
I stood in the hallway for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling a strange, heavy sadness settle in my chest. I didn't fully understand why it hurt. He hadn't yelled. He hadn't been cruel. He had just… shut down. Like I didn't matter enough to explain.
I went to my room.
I closed the door, then immediately began my decompression routine. First, I took a long shower, standing under the hot water until the tightness in my chest eased slightly. I scrubbed carefully at my skin, trying to wash away the hospital smell, antiseptic, stale coffee, and the lingering discomfort from lunch with Anthony. The heat helped a little.
Afterward, I dried off slowly and took off my work clothes, folding them neatly and placing them in the exact order I always did: shirt, then pants, then socks. I changed into my softest pajamas, a loose white t-shirt and gray sweatpants worn in all the right places. The fabric felt safe against my skin.
I climbed into bed, pulled the weighted blanket over my legs, and opened my laptop.
For a while, I just sat there, rocking gently. Then I typed into the search bar.
Psychopathy in romantic relationships
Living with someone with Antisocial Personality Disorder
Partners of psychopaths real stories
I spent the next hour reading articles and watching videos. One video in particular caught my attention, a woman who had been with a partner diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder for six years. She was smiling in the thumbnail, but her eyes looked tired.
I clicked on it.
She spoke openly about loving her partner but keeping a hidden "safety kit" in their home, pepper spray, a small knife, a door wedge, emergency cash, and a burner phone. Comments flooded the screen:
- "Girl, if you need all that… why are you still with him?"
- "This is actually smart. Better safe than sorry."
- "If you don't trust him, leave. Don't stay and prepare for him to hurt you."
- "Some of us love dangerous men. As long as you have a plan B, it's fine."
"My ex was like this. I didn't have a kit. I barely made it out alive."
"Y'all are dramatic. Not every psychopath is violent."
"If you don't trust him, don't marry him. Simple."
- "This is sad. She deserves better."
The woman then showed the actual box. It was small, discreet, hidden behind books on a high shelf. She explained calmly that she loved him, but she wasn't stupid.
I clicked the link in her bio.
My hands were trembling as the page loaded, a discreet online store selling "personal safety bundles for high-risk relationships."
*You know Alexander would never hurt you,* I told myself.
Another voice answered: You never know. Just in case. You might never need it.
Finally, I let out a long, shaky sigh.
I closed the laptop.
This was stupid. I was being paranoid because Anthony had planted those images in my head. Alexander was intense, possessive, and terrifying… but he was my terrifying. He had never harmed me.
I pulled the weighted blanket higher, curled onto my side facing the wall, and began rocking myself slowly, trying to settle the static in my brain.
This was too much.
I didn't know what to think anymore.
I stayed like that for a long time, curled on my side, rocking gently under the weighted blanket, staring at the wall. The room was dark except for the soft glow of the salt lamp. My laptop was closed on the nightstand like it might bite me if I opened it again.
The silence in the house felt louder than usual. Alexander had not come to check on me. He had not come to my room at all.
That bothered me more than I expected.
I rubbed my feet together under the blanket, then started tapping my fingers against my thigh in a fast, uneven rhythm. The static in my head would not settle. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that ugly scar on Anthony's chest. Then I saw Alexander's blank face when he admitted it.
*Most of it was true.*
I hated not knowing what to feel.
After almost an hour, I could not take the quiet anymore. I pushed the blanket off, stood up on the balls of my toes, and walked barefoot down the hallway toward Alexander's bedroom. My heart was beating too fast and my fingers would not stop tapping against my sides.
I stopped outside his door. It was slightly ajar and I could see the dim light from his lamp.
I knocked twice, then pushed the door open without waiting.
Alexander was sitting at the edge of his bed, still fully dressed in his black shirt and trousers, typing on his phone. He looked up when I entered, his expression was the same cold, unreadable mask he had worn since the hospital.
I stood in the doorway, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
"You are ignoring me," I said bluntly but my voice came out quieter than I wanted. "I do not like it when you do that."
Alexander stared at me for a long moment. Then he slowly rose from the bed and walked toward me. He stopped just inches away, towering over me like always.
"I am not ignoring you," he said, voice flat and calm. "I am thinking."
"About what?"
"About how easily my brother got you to go to lunch with him." His hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw.
I swallowed. "I did not go because I wanted to be with him. He said it was important. I was trying to be polite."
Alexander's thumb pressed lightly against my bottom lip, eyes dark.
"You are too polite sometimes, little anomaly." His voice dropped lower. "Too honest and kind, It makes people think they can take what is mine."
I felt my cheeks heat. My fingers started tapping rapidly against his chest.
"I told him I chose you," I said. "I told him I did not like how he spoke about you."
Alexander studied my face like he was looking for a lie. When he found none, something shifted in his eyes still cold, but hungrier.
He suddenly grabbed my waist and pulled me flush against him, backing me up until my back hit the wall beside the door.
"You are mine, Dashiell," he said quietly, almost conversationally, as if stating a medical fact. "Not Anthony's. Not anyone else's. If he comes near you again, I will not be as gentle as I was last time."
I shivered, my hands fisting in his shirt. Even after everything I had seen and read tonight, the possessiveness in his voice still made heat curl low in my stomach.
"Are you going to hurt me?" I asked suddenly, but my voice trembled only a little. "Like you hurt him?"
Alexander went very still.
Then he leaned down, lips brushing my ear.
"Never," he whispered. "I would rather cut my own hands off than put marks on you that you do not want."
He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes.
"But I will hurt anyone who tries to take you from me. Do you understand?"
I nodded slowly, heart racing, toes curling against the floor.
"Yes," I whispered.
Alexander's hand slid into my hair, gripping just tight enough to make me gasp, knowing fully well how sensitive it was.
"Good."
Then he kissed me, hard, deep, and claiming like he was erasing every word Anthony had put in my head.