Chapter 479

Evelyn didn't argue with him. Resting here was the sensible choice—the night had grown too late for travel.

Yet sleep refused to come.

Every time her eyelids fluttered shut, the nightmares clawed their way back. The screams. The blood. The suffocating dread. Her fingers tightened around Alexander's wrist. "Stay. Talk to me."

His thumb brushed her knuckles. "About what?"

"Anything." She exhaled, sinking deeper into the pillows. "Tell me something real. Something about you."

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "There's nothing remarkable about me."

Evelyn arched a brow. Alexander Kensington—the man who'd turned corporate empires into chessboards—claiming his life was ordinary? "Try again."

"Fine." He stretched his legs, the mattress dipping under his weight. "What do you want to know?"

"Your family." She propped herself up on one elbow. "We're getting married. Shouldn't I meet them?"

A shadow flickered across his face. "You will. But they're irrelevant."

"Irrelevant?" The word tasted bitter. "They're your blood."

"Blood means nothing when it's poisoned." His voice stayed light, but his eyes turned glacial. "Imagine growing up with relatives who sent assassins for your birthday. Who framed you for crimes before you could spell your own name."

Her breath hitched.

The Kensington dynasty's brutality was legendary, but this—this was personal. A childhood woven with betrayal. A boy learning to dodge knives instead of catch baseballs.

"You survived," she whispered.

"I adapted." His fingers traced her jawline. "But you? You'll never need to. Not while I'm breathing."

Evelyn pressed his palm to her cheek. His touch was warm. Alive. A shield against the dark.

Alexander watched her eyelids grow heavy, her breathing steady. Only when she'd drifted off did his smile fade.

Because in her dreams, she still called for ghosts.

And ghosts, he knew, were the hardest enemies to kill.