Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

A s the hours stretched on and the storm outside showed no signs of relenting, Alexander found himself pacing the halls of Carrington Manor, his thoughts circling back to Genevieve with a maddening frequency. He had spent the last five years convincing himself that what they’d shared was over and done with—that she had moved on, and so had he.

But now that he was here, trapped in close quarters with her, the truth was undeniable. She was impossible to ignore. Every time he caught a glimpse of her—whether she was standing near the hearth, warming her hands, or simply walking through the manor with that familiar, graceful stride—it felt like something in him twisted, pulling him back to the past.

And the worst part? She was just as fiery, just as sharp-tongued as he remembered. The bitterness between them crackled in the air like the storm outside, and her cold demeanor only seemed to intensify the feelings he had tried so hard to bury.

He hated how easily she got under his skin. Every word and each glance reminded him of how much he had lost when he walked away all those years ago. The regret was heavy, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, but so was the grief for his father. It all seemed to blend together, leaving him conflicted, raw, and, if he were honest, completely unprepared for the whirlwind that was Genevieve Carrington.

She was angry. He could see it in her eyes every time they exchanged words. But there was something else there too, something she could not quite hide, something that flared up every time their gazes locked no matter how much she tried to mask it behind icy indifference.

It was not just anger. It was desire, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, ready to break free if either one of them let their guard down.

Alexander clenched his jaw, frustration welling up inside him. She hated him, and she had every right to. He had broken her heart, and it was no simple thing to come back from that. But damn it, every time she snapped at him or her eyes narrowed in that defiant way, it only reminded him of the fire in her that had drawn him to her in the first place. The very thing that made it impossible for him to ignore her.

And yet, he was stuck between two worlds—his grief for his father, the weight of his new responsibilities as duke, and the emotions that being near her once again stirred in him. He was not the same man she had known, and maybe that was part of the problem. He was not even sure who he was anymore, not since his father’s death had thrown his life off its axis.

But despite his grief, despite the confusion that gnawed at him, there was no denying the way Genevieve made him feel—alive, restless, frustrated, and yearning all at once. It was maddening.

He found himself standing outside the drawing room where he knew she was sitting. He should turn back, go to his quarters, and give her the space she so clearly wanted. But something inside him pushed him forward, a force he could not quite name. He wanted to speak to her again, to at least try to understand where they stood—because despite the anger, the tension, and the years that had passed, the pull between them was undeniable.

He entered the room, his steps careful as he approached the hearth where she sat, staring into the flames. She did not look at him as he approached, but he could tell she was aware of his presence. Her posture stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening on the armrest of her chair.

“Genevieve,” he began, keeping his voice low. “We need to talk.”

She glanced at him, her gaze cold and unyielding. “There is nothing to talk about, Alexander.”

He ignored her dismissive tone and took a seat across from her, determined not to let her push him away this time. “There is plenty to talk about, and you know it.”

She finally met his gaze, her eyes flashing with anger, but beneath it, he saw something else—a flicker of emotion that made his pulse quicken. Damn it, why did she have to look at him like that? Why did being near her make everything else fall away?

“What is it you want, Alexander?” she asked, her voice tight. “To rehash the past? To apologize again for something that is done and dusted?”

“I do not want to rehash the past,” he said, leaning forward, his gaze steady on hers. “I want to understand where we stand now.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “Where we stand? I thought that was clear. We are snowed in together, that is all. Once the storm passes, you will leave, and we will go back to our separate lives.”

Her words were meant to be cold and final, but Alexander could not help but feel a surge of frustration. It was not that simple. He knew it was not, and deep down, she knew it too.

“You can pretend like none of this matters,” he said, his voice low, “but I see it, Genevieve. You are angry, yes, but you cannot deny there is something more here.”

She tensed, her jaw clenching. “You are wrong.”

“Am I?” he challenged, his eyes locking onto hers. “Because every time we are in the same room, it feels like there is a fire between us. You might hate me for what I did, but you cannot pretend there is nothing left.”

Genevieve’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands trembling slightly as she clasped them together in her lap. For a moment, he thought she would lash out at him again, hurl more cold words his way. But instead, she stared at the fire, her voice softer, more vulnerable than he had heard it in years.

“It does not matter,” she whispered as if speaking to herself. “Whatever was there… it is gone. It has to be.”

Alexander’s chest tightened. He wanted to believe her, to respect the wall she was trying so hard to build between them. But the longer they stayed trapped here together, the harder it was to ignore the truth.

He stood, moving toward her, his steps slow and careful. He did not want to push too hard, but damn it, he could not keep pretending he did not feel something too. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and guarded as he stopped in front of her.

“You say it is gone,” he said softly, “but I do not believe that. Not for a second.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the mask she wore cracked, revealing the emotions she had tried so hard to hide. She blinked, tearing her gaze from his, but he could see the way her pulse quickened, the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.

He was still grieving, still conflicted by his responsibilities and the weight of his father’s death, but one thing had become crystal clear since the moment he had walked into Carrington Manor—he could not ignore her. No matter how much time had passed, no matter how much pain still lingered between them, Genevieve was impossible to forget.

And maybe, just maybe, she could not forget him either.