Nightshade: An Enemies to Lovers, Dark Academic Romance (Sorrowsong University Book 1)
Nightshade: Chapter 24

Alex is up to something. I’m not sure what, but his eyes are alight with a joy that makes my heart sing.

I have that sort of headache that you only get when you’ve cried way too much for one day. My burnt hand stings beneath the wet towel, my body aches, but I feel lighter. I thought Alex would leave me, but instead he met my confession with the same patience he usually gives me.

I’m going to delete the file from my laptop.

I sit on the bed, bundled in his clothes with a bowl of Pringles, a Sudoku, and a cup of tea, instructed not to move a muscle. I end up with three nines on my final row; my brain was fried at some point during our kiss, but I don’t get angry like usual. I’m excited for Christmas. This real Christmas. Honestly, I’d rather it wasn’t in this house, but Alex is making it feel better.

“Okay, come down,” shouts Alex from downstairs. I juggle my book, Alex’s present, my snacks, and my drink as I creak down the steps. He’s by the front door, dressed in washed charcoal jeans, black Converse, and a hoodie. My mouth waters at the sight of him.

“We’re going out?”

“I figured it’s not easy for you to relax in this house.”

He sees me and he knows me. I put on some slippers and practically bounce out the door with glee. I feel like a kid on Christmas morning. “Where are we going?”

“Well, first of all, we’ll replace food. It may be instant ramen.”

“I love instant ramen.”

The car outside looks expensive, and very equipped for snowy Scottish roads. The headlights illuminate the pothole-ridden street outside, a warm glow emanating from the windows. “Is this yours, too? And the Rolls and the other one in London? Why’d you need three cars in a country you don’t even live in for half the year?”

“Calm down, Twist. This one is a rental. I do like it, though. I might get one to keep at university. Would be nice to have somewhere to rail you that has working lightbulbs.” He cocks his head at me. “Did I say that last bit out loud?”

“Can’t tell, I was busy staring at your ass.”

He laughs and helps me into the passenger seat. I spin to look behind and clap my hands together in sheer excitement. Presents. I haven’t unwrapped a present in a long time. The back rows are folded all the way down, creating a flat, spacious area behind the front seats. It’s definitely big enough for us to lie down in. Not that I’m thinking about it.

The fairy lights are dotted around the perimeter of the car, bathing it in a tangerine warmth. A blanket covers the whole space, two more folded in the far corner. A crossword book and two bags of Jelly Babies sit neatly on top.

I’ve forgotten how good it feels to be loved. And to think I’ve been resisting this for so long.

Alex slides into the driver’s seat, handing me his phone to put some music on. I do just that, and take an ugly close-up selfie on it too. He grins and sets it as his lock screen, pulling the car away into the night.

“Shit,” he mutters, as the fish and chip bar comes into view. John, the owner, is just locking up. Alex pulls the car over and rolls down my window.

John nods at me. “Ophelia. Merry Christmas for yesterday.”

“Hello, John.”

Alex leans over a little. “John, I have a very hungry, very grumpy woman here.”

“I don’t envy you, lad.”

“One portion of fries for her, I’m begging you.”

My mouth waters. I would love some chips right now. “I’ve already locked up, mate. Sorry.”

Alex pulls a giant wad of cash from the glove box. I’m practically hugging myself with elation. He loves me. “Name your price. Any price.”

John slaps his red hand on the car by way of goodbye. “Can’t put a price on the missus being angry that I’m home late. Also, they’re not fries, they’re chips. Put a bit of respect on my food.”

Alex watches him leave in the rearview mirror. “Fuck.”

“The locals don’t love people who aren’t Scottish.”

“I gathered.” He pulls away again. We do a loop of every takeaway, restaurant, café, and shop in the town, which isn’t many. Finally, we reach an off license on the corner of the street my old pottery studio was on. The owner is locking up when Alex gets out of the car and runs over.

I watch him hand cash to the man at the door and hurry inside. I don’t know how much he gave him, but it looked like a stack. Alex emerges five minutes later with a steaming cup of ramen in each hand and four beers tucked under his arm. He slides into the seat beside me and sets the noodles in the cup holders. I can’t drag my eyes off his profile. The way he puffs a breath through parted lips, the way his jawline flexes as he chews his lip, but mostly the way his eyes glitter when he looks up at me and smiles. “Bastard charged me twenty quid to borrow his kettle.”

“Because you sound American.”

“Well, my American friends tell me I sound French, my French friends tell me I sound English, and my British friends tell me I sound American.”

I settle back into the leather as he turns the heater for my seat on and puts the beers behind us. “You do kind of sound all three.”

His grin is so wide that it sucks his dimples in. I’m doomed. “And you sound Scottish when you’re angry. It’s like having Billy Connolly tell me not to steal his cookies.”

That is true. My father was Scottish, my mother born and raised in London. For some reason, I do go Scottish when I shout. “They’re biscuits.”

He pulls away, away from the tiny town center. “Whatever.”

This is one of the first times in a long time I’ve been neither at Sorrowsong nor at my house, and I feel lighter than air.

Our conversation is easy as he drives us through the night, and all the while I watch every detail of him. The passion while he talks about the architecture back in Paris. The pride in his voice when he relays how good Charlotte’s parent-teacher conference was. The emotion in his tone when he explains how in love his parents were before it all soured, and the tiniest whispered confession that he still believes true love exists.

It’s like he experiences the same breath of life when we’re together that I do.

The cords of his forearms flex as he steers with his right hand, left hand sitting on my thigh. I’m glad it stays there, because if he ventured upward, he’d replace out just how much I’ve been thinking about being in the back of the car with him. “What about you? You got a long-abandoned dream?”

“Child psychologist,” I say, as he pulls the car up in a hiker’s car park. It’s where all the doggers hang out, but he probably knows that. Who am I kidding? That’s probably why we’re here. “It’s not been a life-long dream, but when my parents died, that was what I was doing in the fictional happy ending I built for myself. Helping kids with grief, trauma, that kind of thing.”

He squeezes my thigh. “You’d be amazing at that.”

“Oh, yeah. Everyone wants an emotionally unstable therapist.”

His eyes drop to my chest. “I want this emotionally unstable therapist.”

He leaves the engine running so that the heaters can stay on, gesturing for me to go into the back. Nerves race around my body. Does he know how inexperienced I am?

I can’t face the cold outside, so I crawl between the front seats. I can only imagine Alex’s view right now. I hear him clear his throat and shift in his seat before I feel a firm bite through the fabric of his joggers.

He follows me into the back of the car, a den of soft lighting and luxurious blankets. He settles beside me, draping a blanket over my lap and queuing up the second Lord of the Rings on his MacBook. I accept the lukewarm noodles he hands me, twizzling them around the plastic fork and willing myself not to cry.

This is one of the best Christmases ever.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For this. For coming. For not being angry I lied. Just for everything.”

A soft kiss lands in my hair. “No, thank you.”

I slurp my noodles up my chin in a way that cannot be flattering. “What for?”

I don’t understand his response, not really, but he says it with so much conviction that I know it means something to him. “For yellow and green, for red and purple and orange.”

“And brown?”

He laughs, making my heart stutter. “And brown too. It’s my favorite color, lately.”

As the level of my ramen goes down, the speed of my heartbeat goes up. I’m overthinking again. Will he ask me why, at twenty-one, I’ve never had a partner? Will he care? Should I just say I’ve had loads? No, definitely not. He definitely knows I’ve never slept with anyone. But when is the time to formally tell him? Now? Later? Is that presumptuous of me to assume he even wants to sleep with me today?

“I’m a virgin,” I blurt out abruptly.

Thanks, brain.

He nods, swallowing his mouthful with a fond smile. “Cool. I’m not.”

I nod right back, like one of those dashboard figurines with the wobbly heads. “Cool. Cool, cool. Nice. Good for you, I mean. Get in there, man.”

Get in there? Did I just say that? Oh my god. I reach for the door handle, preferably to toss myself into the nearest ravine, but Alex grabs my hand, chest shaking with laughter. “Thanks, bro.”

“Shut up.” I hope he can’t see how red I am. “And I haven’t shaved my legs yet.”

“I should bloody well hope not. You need all the help you can get in that fucking house.” He eats the last mouthful of his noodles. “I haven’t shaved mine either.”

My next breath comes out a whimper. “You have really nice legs. Really…big.”

“Ophelia, I sense you’re spiraling.”

“I’m spiraling.”

He reaches over for the giant bag of presents, planting it on my lap and swiveling to face me. I postpone my sex-based meltdown for later. “I already know you’re going to not accept these.”

“So why bother?”

He rests his chin on his hand and blinks up at me with big, green eyes. It’s very cute. “Because I’m desperate.”

“I got you something, too, but…” I itch my neck, trying to think of a way to say it. “Money’s not been great this year, somehow. Even though I literally have no presents to buy for anyone else. The washing machine broke and then the freezer. The nursing home pay is awful.”

“You didn’t have to get me anything. I don’t want you to worry about money. I could pay off your bills.”

Absolutely not. “Well, that’s a conversation for another day. Jesus Christ, there’s, like…seven things in here!” I’m flattered he got me a present, but mostly I’m flattered he knows me well enough to think of seven things I’d like.

“Five from me.” He pulls out one in Frozen wrapping paper and one in the most expensive-looking wrapping I’ve ever seen. I look at each of the tags.

You’re a brave woman going near Alex. From Fleur, Mia, Evie, Éléanor, Charlotte, and Josie.

“Fleur wrote that tag. Her whole life is dedicated to keeping me humble.”

“They got me a present?” I whisper, voice hoarse with unshed tears.

“Yeah. I know you’re only just coming to terms with us, but…I’ve been telling them about you for two months. Sorry.”

I peel open the Disney paper and rapidly try to blink away the tears. I fail miserably. It’s a friendship bracelet. Small and purple and messily homemade. It’s everything I’ve ever wanted. Alex brushes my tears away with his thumbs. “Mia is desperate to FaceTime you. Actually, they all are.”

Then there’s the world’s most expensive candle from Alex’s mother, the kind you pick up and smell and put back once you see the price tag. It smells amazing. Not floral, just homely and warm. It smells like a busy house with cakes in the oven and a full kitchen sink. The note says to warm you up if you’re home alone.

Then there’s a pile from Alex, and a homemade Christmas card, too. It’s a crossword, the word Ophelia running down the middle with the word Alex coming sideways from the end. He’s such a romantic. It makes up for my emotional constipation tenfold.

He got me a giant crossword book, and the most delicious-smelling shampoo ever. And the best drying robe for wild swimming that has been sitting in my wish list on the website for two years. “Okay, before you tell me off for the last two, they’re selfish gifts.”

“I’m scared now,” I mumble, unwrapping the final two. A MacBook and a pair of noise-canceling headphones land on my lap. “No.”

“Hear me out.”

“No, no. Absolutely not.”

He clasps his hands together, his voice a desperate plea. “Ophelia, you’re too beautiful a woman for that blurry webcam. It’s not fair on me. It doesn’t do you justice.”

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t swooning. The two women inside me have abandoned their constant fighting. They’re on the same team now, bent over with their joggers down. “And the headphones?”

“You try untangling those stupid earbuds and you’re in a bad mood for the next four hours. For the sake of my balls, use these.”

Another no is on the tip of my tongue, but I know that accepting these gifts will nurture Alex the same way he’s nurtured me today. I let out a deep exhale and press my lips to his. “Thank you so much. They’ll help me with the helicopter sound, too. Will you help me set them up?”

He looks so content. “I would love to.”

He holds my present. It looks tiny in his large, veiny hands. “It’s not…it’s in a different league to these.” I motion at my pile of gifts.

“Well, I’m excited.” He unwraps it neatly, turning over the small, orange sketchbook. There are fifty pages of premium drawing paper inside, and I’ve written a prompt on each one. Every page is different. Draw something you love. Draw a Georgian window. Design a banquet hall. Design a church spire. Draw something at Sorrowsong.

He flicks through each one with an expression that’s so unlike him, it almost makes me cry again. He looks like a child at Christmas, a child that’s realizing he really is loved.

“This is the best present ever,” he declares, once he hits the final page. “And I’m saying that as a man who got the Sandy from Grease limited edition Barbie for his fifth birthday.”

I crack open a bag of Jelly Babies and steal an orange one, chewing it through my amusement. “Oh, wow. I’m in an esteemed company.”

“Thank you, angel.” He crawls over me where I sit so we’re lying in the back of the car. “I mean it.”

I let my thighs fall apart, letting him settle between them. The rough fabric of his jeans is hard against the cotton sweatpants. I don’t have any underwear on, and I feel every shift of his body as his lips carve a hot path across my jaw.

“There’s no one else around, love,” he whispers between kisses. So we can be as loud as we want lingers in the sliver of space between us. His kiss is all-consuming, teeth tugging at my lower lip briefly before he goes back in for more.

There’s a fire deep inside me and he’s throwing fuel onto it with reckless abandon. “Please,” I whisper, tugging at his hair. He groans into my mouth, tearing his top off and tossing it into the front of the car.

I sit up and do the same, the air in here warm enough that I don’t feel too cold. He curses in French, fingers running over the pale skin of my stomach. The soft flesh dips beneath his touch; something I’d tease my own reflection for that seems to be sending him feral. “My very own Aphrodite.” His fingers slip beneath the sweatpants, pupils dilating. “Is this all for me?”

“I’ve been thinking about this all evening.”

He looks pained. Like he wants me so much it physically hurts. I understand how he feels. Gently, his fingers move in a lazy circle, my soft moans filling the car. A carnal warmth spreads throughout my body, igniting when he thrusts two fingers inside, the heel of his hand pressing against the most sensitive part of me. My vision blurs from how good he feels. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Me too,” he whispers, like he’s letting me in on a secret. “I’ve never been so desperate not to fuck anything up.”

I blush, unbuttoning his jeans. “You’re…big.” Understatement. “What happened to the best two inches of my life?”

He laughs. “Finally replied to those penis extension emails in my spam inbox.” He tucks an unruly orange curl behind my ear. “You can take it, baby. I’ll help you.”

Fuck. Me. I’m panting like a dog, the windows of the car fogged up already. He arches the two fingers inside me in a kind of beckoning motion. My cry is so loud it takes me by surprise. I grasp the blanket beneath me, toes curling into the floor, spine bending as he drags me closer and closer to the edge, pulling away when I’m on the precipice. He frees himself and I swallow thickly, running my eyes down his tattooed abdomen. He really wants me. “I’m not on the pill.”

He holds up a condom between his fingers, putting me at ease. I watch with mild fascination as he tears it open with his teeth and rolls it over himself, abs contracting with each heavy breath. He falls back down, palms landing on either side of my head. “We’ll start like this, but I’m desperate to finish with you on top.”

Oh God. That sounds advanced. I’m level one at this. The two idiots in my head are already pulling on their riding boots. He interlaces his fingers with mine, kissing me softer than before. “Will it hurt?” I whisper, eyes wide.

He kisses my forehead, my nose, each of my cheeks, gently sucking on my lower lip. My lower belly clenches. He releases it with a wet pop. “Maybe a little.”

He tightens his grip on my hand, both of us silent. His heart beats against mine, just as fast. His forehead lands against my own, eyes burning as he shifts his hips forward an inch. My breath hitches in my throat, a delicious burning unfurling between my legs. It hurts and feels criminally good all at once.

His voice is rough and husky in my ear, gaze half lidded and lazy, like after a lifetime of wandering, he’s finally home. “You’re doing so well.”

I plead for more, taken by a hunger unlike one I’ve ever experienced. He hooks my ankle over one of his shoulders. “Ready? Sure?”

“Yeah, and yeah,” I reply, and he slams his hips against mine. The sound that leaves my throat is ragged and primal, my hand dropping his in favor of clawing at his back.

My name on his lips is a desperate plea, every muscle in his torso contracting. He gives me a moment to breathe, gives me a second to accommodate him, peppers me with worship.

And then he makes good on all the things he’s whispered down the phone this week.

Alex has been at mine for four nights. Four nights crammed into the smallest single bed known to man.

We’re official. Well, he says we’ve been official for a month and a half, but I’m coming to terms with it. He posted a faceless picture of me passed out on his bare chest in the Land Rover the other day on his Instagram, which according to Colette means he’s serious.

He even tagged my account. @user802078 is kind of an internet sensation right now. Thankfully, I’m private, so only Alex, Sarah, Vin, Colette, and Divya can see my zero posts.

I do have about nine thousand follow requests, though. Horrifying.

I wiggle my toes in bed, unable to move any more. I woke up to replace Alex sketching me from the end of the bed, so I have to stay still. It’s a small price to pay for the draw something you love page in his sketchbook.

I’m sore in places I never imagined I could be sore. We’ve christened every surface in the kitchen. I think I’ve awoken some kind of animal in Alex. He’s insatiable. He woke me up for sex at three in the morning.

I went along with it as a one-time treat but told him if it happened again he’d lose a ball. 3:00 a.m. is an unsociable hour for me.

I deleted the file from my laptop. It’s bittersweet; I cried after I did it, but Alex is my future. I’m sure of that. He is the definition of above and beyond.

“Breakfast?” he says, closing his sketchbook.

“After your therapy call?”

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Alex, the world won’t end if I go downstairs for an hour and you stay up here.”

He buries his head between my breasts, his voice muffled. “Are you sure?”

“I’m super sure.”

“Fine. I’ll shower too.” He kisses me once. Twice. Three times, dragging me with him into the bathroom.

He takes meticulous care in washing my hair, running soapy hands over every inch of my body. By the time we’ve brushed our teeth and strolled out of the bathroom, I’m struggling to look anywhere but the tanned muscle above the towel around his hips. He’s a work of art, a mass of smooth skin and broad muscles.

I want to jump on top of him, all the time. Maybe I should take control for once. My eyes flick to the discarded robe tie in the bathroom across the hall. My internal temperature rises another degree. Alex tied up and whimpering, begging. Bloody hell.

“I was about to ring my dad, in case you wanted to listen or leave.”

Well, that short-circuited my lust. “About my parents’ death?”

“Yeah. He’s in Japan at the moment, so I haven’t caught him back home yet.”

“I’ll listen, but it might be too much.”

He kisses the top of my head, bringing up his dad’s contact. A familiar sense of panic starts to build in my chest as it rings.

“Nice to know you haven’t forgotten about your old man.”

Cain Green’s voice makes my world tilt on its axis. I feel wobbly. Alex lowers me down to the bed, face creased with worry. “Afternoon, Cain.”

“What could you possibly be calling me about? You’re not so keen on friendly chats these days.”

Alex’s nostrils flare. It’s clear his animosity toward his father isn’t one sided. “I’m calling about a hit.”

The line beeps and crackles, and Alex holds out my phone on the Notes app. He’s switching to an encrypted line, he types. Cain chuckles. It’s bone-chilling. “Who has dared to wrong my little boy?”

“I don’t want to take someone out; I want to know about one that happened here in Sorrowsong.”

His father yawns down the line. “That one was a shame.”

I’m so sorry, Alex mouths at me. I’m glued to the bed by my own morbid curiosity, my apparent need to see myself suffer. “Who ordered the hit?”

“Me.”

“Why?”

“Ah, it was complicated. I did feel a little bad.”

Alex’s hand tightens around the edge of the mattress. “Who was the intended target?”

“A woman, I think. Her and her husband. I can’t recall their names. Annabel…Anna? Something like that. Wasn’t anyone of importance; no one noticed they’d gone in the end, anyway. Probably one of the easiest clean up jobs I’ve ever done.”

Alex slips my new earphones into my ears, eyes filled with apology. I pull them out. I need to hear this. “Why’d you kill a random woman in Sorrowsong? Were you sleeping with her?”

My eyes turn to saucers. Does Alex think Cain was my mother’s lover? Cain cackles. “God, no. Not my type. Someone had gotten hold of some videos of me I’d rather not go public, and the hit was payment for their deletion.”

I bolt upright. Who? I mouth at him, heart racing.

“Who was it?”

“Why the sudden interest?”

Alex picks up the box from the bedside table and lights his first cigarette of the week, taking a drag like he’s struggling to get through the conversation. “Call it curiosity.”

“Another nobody. But I’d rather your mother didn’t see videos of me with Harris’s PA—you know how dramatic she can be when she’s upset. It would be bad press.”

Alex looks livid. So angry he might burn the world down. Carmichael’s PA? Was Cain sleeping with her? “Who was it that wanted the husband and wife dead?”

“I can’t remember—no one of any significance. Never heard from him since. He worked at the university, too. Show your face at the company once in a while, will you? Don’t make me change my mind about giving you my job in a couple of decades’ time.”

“Will do, Dad. Lovely as always.”

“Who’s the girl, Alex?”

I freeze in place as I pace the room. “No one you’d have heard of.”

“Lose her.”

“I’ll think about it,” he says, shaking his head at me. “See you around.”

I sit back down, light-headed. My stalker and my parents’ killer works—or worked—at Sorrowsong, was sleeping with my mother, loves classical literature. It’s so much information, and yet I just don’t know. I can’t think who it could be.

“Surely Carmichael knows who it was,” I say, head in my hands.

“I think he does, but he won’t say. I’ve tried everything short of killing him. I’d waterboard him if I wasn’t trying to win him over.”

“Why? Why would he do that to me?”

“Blackmail, probably, or he’s trying to protect his millions in Green investments.”

“I hate him.”

“So do I lately.”

I lie back on the mattress, feeling it dip as he lies beside me. The file is in the Trash folder on my laptop. Gone, but not truly. I have thirty days to recover it. Thirty days to change my mind.

Alex wraps his arms around me, spooning my smaller frame. I have this awful sensation like everything is too good to be true, going too well. Alan has been too quiet, too silent. He’s up to something, I’m sure.

I hate my mind sometimes.