CHAPTER 42: EMOTIONAL SABOTAGE IS A VALID COPING MECHANISM.

Charles’ POV

I woke up and needed a full ten seconds to remember where I was.

White ceiling.

White walls.

A faint smell of pine and whatever cologne soldiers drown themselves in.

Right.

Alexander’s house.

I’d come here myself — walked here actually — because my head felt too full and Louis had a way of taking up every corner of it. Alexander’s doorstep had always been the only place I could show up unannounced and still be met with, "Get in, dumbass," instead of questions.

I must’ve knocked, sat on his couch, and then... crashed.

I groaned as I pushed myself upright.

His guest room was simple, almost aggressively neat. A folded blanket at the foot of the bed. No personal touches. The kind of room that said: I might pack up and leave again tomorrow.

I swung my legs to the floor just as the door creaked open.

"Finally alive," Alexander said, voice low and rough from sleep — or training, or both. His broad frame filled the doorway easily, arms crossed over his chest.

"Shut up," I muttered.

He smirked, stepping inside. "You walk into my house, mutter something about needing space, and then pass out on my bed. I think I deserve at least a ’good morning.’"

"You put me on your bed?" I asked, raising a brow.

"It was closer than the couch," he said simply, but something in the way he said it...

Yeah.

That tone.

That warmth he tried to cover with sarcasm.

Subtle. Too subtle.

But I wasn’t blind.

Alexander cared — more than he should.

I ignored it, leaning forward and rubbing my temples. "I just needed to get away from Louis for a bit."

Alex’s jaw ticked.

Barely.

But it was there.

He hated hearing Louis’s name. Always had.

---

Charles POV.

"Yesterday, I asked you about him. What he did to you. But till the end you kept shut."

Alexander sat beside me, not too close, but close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him.

I sighed. "Because there’s nothing to tell."

"That’s a lie," he said, voice quiet but unyielding.

I frowned at him. "You think you know everything?"

"No," he said, eyes fixed on me. "But I know when you’re hurting. And I know when it’s because of him."

I looked away.

His hand shifted just slightly on the mattress between us — he didn’t touch me, but it felt like he almost wanted to.

"Charles," he said softly, "you showed up at my house past midnight, shaking. You didn’t even take off your shoes before collapsing on the couch."

I swallowed.

"I wasn’t shaking."

"Yes, you were."

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. "And you weren’t drunk. You weren’t tired. You were... overwhelmed."

My breath hitched.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

Alexander always noticed.

"Did he yell at you?" His voice changed — lower, angrier. "Did he blame you for something? Did he—"

"No," I cut in quickly. "He didn’t yell."

He stared at me, eyes narrowing slightly. "But he hurt you."

"That’s not—"

"You looked like someone took something from you," Alexander murmured. "Like something you didn’t know how to get back."

My chest tightened painfully.

I hated how he could read me when I didn’t want to be read.

"It wasn’t Louis," I said — too fast.

"Then who?" he asked.

I blinked.

Opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Alexander waited, patient in the way a wolf waited outside a cave.

"I don’t want to talk about it," I finally whispered.

He didn’t push.

Not immediately.

Instead, he exhaled and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"You know," he said, "you never come to me unless you’re drowning."

I winced.

"And you only stay when you’re scared."

"Alex—"

"You think that’s normal?" he asked quietly. "You think that’s healthy?"

My throat tightened.

"It’s not about Louis," I whispered.

"But it is about Louis," he shot back, finally turning to look at me again. "Everything with you is."

Silence stretched thin between us.

He softened again, voice barely audible.

"Charles... if he broke you, I need to know."

"He didn’t," I said sharply — too defensively.

Alexander’s expression changed.

Not angry.

Not jealous.

Just... hurt.

A flash of something real before he masked it again.

"Then why are you here?" he asked.

I didn’t answer.

Because the truth tasted too much like desperation.

Because I didn’t want to be alone with the memory of Louis’s voice.

Or the way his eyes looked when he almost said something he wasn’t supposed to feel.

Because Alexander was the only person I could run to without explanation.

Because he cared.

Too much.

"Charles," Alexander murmured, leaning slightly closer, "what happened last night?"

This time, his voice wasn’t jealous.

Wasn’t demanding.

It was gentle.

Worried.

Protective.

The kind of tone that made my chest ache.

I closed my eyes, hands curling into fists.

"It doesn’t matter," I whispered.

"It does to me."

I inhaled shakily.

He didn’t touch me.

Didn’t crowd me.

Didn’t force an answer.

He just sat there, breathing quietly beside me.

Steady.

Solid.

Safe.

And somehow...

that made it worse.

I finally spoke up.

"I’ve never hidden anything from you," I said quietly. "Not about my bond with Louis. And I don’t want to start now."

Alexander’s entire body went still — not tense, not startled — aware. Like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

I breathed in, then let the words fall out.

"He’s engaged," I said.

"To someone else."

Alexander blinked once.

"...His parents forced him?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"No. It was his choice."

This time, the silence hit like a blow.

Alexander didn’t explode. He didn’t rant. He didn’t pace.

His reaction was far worse — quiet disbelief that slowly melted into anger he tried and failed to hide.

"He chose someone else," he said flatly.

"Yes."

"And all this time—" His jaw clenched. "All this time he’s been looking at you like—"

"Don’t," I whispered, shaking my head.

But it was too late.

Alexander had seen it. Always had.

"That’s not something you forget, Charles," he said, voice rough. "The way he looks at you. The way he feels you. You don’t... choose someone else after that."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "Well, he did."

Alexander leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. He stared at the floor for a long moment before speaking again.

"You and Louis share the same parents," he said slowly. "Same house. Same family."

He paused, his voice tightening.

"And he still chose someone else over his mate?"

I nodded, swallowing the sting in my throat.

"He didn’t tell you," Alexander added quietly.

"No."

"And he didn’t consider how it would destroy you."

"Alex—"

"And even after you found out," he continued, cutting me off, "he let you walk out. Alone. At night."

My chest tightened painfully.

"Please stop," I said. "I don’t want to think about it like that."

Alexander looked at me then — really looked — and the fury in his eyes softened into something more painful.

"Charles," he murmured, "you came here. To me. Not to your parents, not to anyone else."

I didn’t respond.

"You came to the one place Louis can’t reach you," he said. "The one person he can’t control."

The truth of that sat between us, heavy and obvious.

Slowly, carefully, Alexander lifted his hand — the same way someone reaches toward a wounded animal — and hovered it near mine without touching.

"You know why I’m angry?" he asked softly.

"Because you hate Louis," I whispered.

"No," he said, voice low.

"I’m angry because he hurt you. Again."

My breath caught.

"And because every time he does," Alexander whispered, "you come here trying to pretend you’re not breaking."

The bond between me and Louis pulled tight in my chest — but sitting here in Alexander’s quiet house, with his steady presence, it felt muted... distant.

And that terrified me.

Alexander must’ve seen the panic flicker across my face, because he dropped his hand and exhaled shakily.

"I’m not asking you to choose," he said softly.

"I know who you’re tied to. I know what he means to you."

He looked away, jaw flexing.

"I just wish," he said quietly, "that for once... someone chose you back."

"I’m strong on my own," I said.

Alexander gave me a look.

Not a soft one.

Not a pitying one.

A full-body, jaw-tight, eyebrows-raised, are-you-kidding-me look.

Disbelief + disapproval = Alexander’s specialty.

"Don’t give me that look," I muttered, reaching out and dragging both his cheeks outward like he was a grumpy cat.

He didn’t even blink.

Just stared at me with murder in his eyes.

I let go, flopping back dramatically.

"Look, I’m already taking my revenge on him."

Alexander’s arms folded instantly — big, intimidating, military-man posture activated.

"How," he said, voice flat, unimpressed, already preparing to disapprove.

I smirked and lay back on the bed, hands tucked behind my head.

"His fiancé seemed neglected," I said casually. "So my presence just happened to worsen their relationship."

Alexander stared at me like I’d just confessed to arson.

"You’re proud of that?" he asked slowly.

"Absolutely," I said.

"That’s not revenge," he deadpanned.

"Yes it is."

"That’s emotional sabotage."

"Exactly."

Alexander dragged a hand over his face in a long, exhausted wipe, like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to being my friend.

"Charles," he said, "normal people don’t respond to heartbreak by destabilizing entire relationships."

I shrugged. "He talked to me first. I simply existed beautifully."

"Beautifully?"

His brow arched.

"You have seen me, haven’t you?"

That earned me the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth — almost a smile, before he crushed it with discipline.

Still, his eyes softened.

"Even if you didn’t do anything," he said, sitting beside me again, "Louis was always going to break it off with Him."

I frowned. "How do you know?"