Sleep was supposed to be an escape.
A sanctuary.
A place where the battered body and the tormented mind could find temporary peace.
But for Kelvin, sleep had become a battlefield.
He was drifting through a haze of fever dreams, his skin clammy, his head pounding, his thoughts fragmenting into disjointed pieces.
Images flashed through his mind—Marcus’s sneering face, the cold concrete of the warehouse, the blinding headlights of Alexander’s car, the sharp sting of the slap he had delivered to his boss’s cheek.
And then—something warm.
Something soft.
Something pressing against his lips.
At first, Kelvin thought it was part of the dream.
A strange, confusing fragment of his feverish imagination.
His lips tingled, and he felt a presence hovering over him, close and warm and— ‘Wait.’ His eyes snapped open.
And there he was.
Alexander Morrowgate.
His face was inches from Kelvin’s.
His eyes were half-lidded, dark and intense, filled with something Kelvin couldn’t name.
And his lips—his lips were pressed against Kelvin’s.
‘He’s kissing me.’ ‘Alexander Morrowgate is kissing me!’ ‘I am a man, and Alexander Morrowgate is kissing me!’ Kelvin’s brain short-circuited.
For a frozen moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
All he could feel was the warmth of Alexander’s mouth on his, the faint scent of expensive cologne, the rough texture of his stubbled jaw.
Then instinct kicked in.
Kelvin gasped and jerked backward, scrambling up in bed so fast that his head spun.
The room tilted, and he had to grip the bedsheet to steady himself.
“What—what are you doing here?!” Kelvin’s voice came out high and breathless, cracking with shock.
“Did you just—did you just ‘kiss’ me?!” Alexander didn’t answer.
He just sat there, perched on the edge of the bed like a predator who had cornered its prey.
His eyes were hooded, dark, unreadable.
He said nothing.
He simply looked at Kelvin with an intensity that made Kelvin’s skin crawl and tingle at the same time.
“Alexander?” Kelvin’s voice wavered.
“Say something.” Alexander’s gaze dropped to Kelvin’s lips.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward.
“Wait—” But Alexander didn’t wait.
His hand came up, cupping Kelvin’s face with surprising gentleness.
His thumb traced the curve of Kelvin’s cheekbone, featherlight, sending shivers down Kelvin’s spine.
Then he leaned in, and his lips met Kelvin’s again.
This time, it wasn’t soft.
It was fire.
The kiss was hungry, urgent, desperate.
Alexander’s mouth moved against Kelvin’s with a passion that bordered on savage, his hand sliding to the back of Kelvin’s neck, pulling him closer.
There was no hesitation, no gentleness—just raw, burning need.
Kelvin’s mind went blank.
For a terrifying, thrilling second, he felt his body respond.
The warmth of Alexander’s mouth, the strength of his grip, the intoxicating scent of him—it was overwhelming.
Kelvin’s lips parted, and he felt Alexander’s tongue brush against his— ‘No.’ ‘No, no, no.’ Reality crashed back down like a collapsed building.
Kelvin shoved at Alexander’s chest with both hands, pushing with all his strength.
But Alexander was solid, unmovable, a wall of muscle and heat.
He didn’t budge.
He kept kissing Kelvin, his grip tightening, his breath hot and ragged against Kelvin’s skin.
Panic surged through Kelvin’s veins.
He did the only thing he could think of.
He bit down.
Hard.
Alexander jerked back with a sharp hiss, his hand flying to his mouth.
Blood welled up on his lower lip, a thin crimson line that he wiped away with the back of his hand.
His eyes, still dark and intense, narrowed dangerously.
But Kelvin wasn’t done.
He lashed out with his foot, aiming for Alexander’s stomach.
The kick landed awkwardly—Alexander twisted at the last second, and Kelvin’s foot glanced off his hip instead.
But it was enough to create distance.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” Kelvin screamed, his voice raw and ragged.
He didn’t care if his male voice had slipped in.
He scrambled to the far side of the bed, pressing his back against the headboard, his chest heaving.
“ARE YOU INSANE?!” Alexander touched his bloody lip again, studying the crimson stain on his fingers with an almost clinical detachment.
His expression was hard to describe, a mask of cold composure that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“That,” he said finally, his voice low and measured, “was for slapping me yesterday.” Kelvin stared at him, his mouth hanging open in disbelief.
His brain struggled to process the words, to make sense of the absurdity that had just spilled from Alexander’s lips.
“Excuse me?” Kelvin’s voice was barely audible, trembling with a cocktail of fury and disbelief.
“You kissed me—you ‘forced yourself’ on me—as a ‘punishment’?
For slapping you?” Alexander didn’t flinch.
He simply stood there, wiping the remaining blood from his lip, his cold mask firmly in place.
“Consider it even.” “Even?!” Kelvin’s voice rose to a near-shriek.
His hands were shaking, his whole body vibrating with rage.
If he had been thinking clearly—if he hadn’t been burning with fever, if his head wasn’t pounding, if he hadn’t just been kissed by a man for the first time in his life—he might have controlled himself.
But he wasn’t thinking clearly.
He surged forward, his leg swinging in a vicious arc, and his foot connected with Alexander’s shin with a satisfying ‘thwack’.
Alexander grunted, stumbling back a step, his composure cracking for just a moment.
His eyes widened, and a flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face before the mask slammed back down.
“You—” Alexander started, his voice low and dangerous.
“You breached the contract!” Kelvin shouted, cutting him off.
His chest heaved, his wig had shifted, and a strand of his own dark hair was peeking out, but he didn’t care.
“Article 7, Section B!
‘No intimate contact shall be made between the fake fiancée and Mr.
Alexander Morrowgate during the duration of the contract!’ I read the fine print, you arrogant bastard!” Alexander’s eyes narrowed.
His shin was clearly hurting—he shifted his weight slightly, favoring the other leg—but his voice remained cold and steady when he spoke.
“You slapped me, Kelly.
You breached the contract first.
Article 3, Section A: ‘The fake fiancée shall at all times treat Mr.
Alexander Morrowgate with respect and deference, and shall not engage in any physical or verbal abuse toward Mr.
Morrowgate.’ I simply…
collected my due compensation.” Kelvin’s jaw dropped.
“Compensation?!
You think a ‘kiss’ is compensation for assault?!” “I think,” Alexander said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a silken whisper, “that you got off easy.
I could have terminated the contract.
I could have thrown you out on the street.
Instead, I sent you food.
I gave you a day to rest.
I brought a doctor to check on your fever.” The words hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.
Kelvin’s hands balled into fists at his sides.
His entire body was trembling—with rage, with fever, with something else he refused to name.
His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, each one more chaotic than the last.
‘He kissed me.
A man kissed me.
And I—I almost kissed him back.’ The thought was a knife twisting in his gut.
“I’m leaving,” Kelvin said, his voice flat and hollow.
He grabbed his handbag from the nightstand, slinging it over his shoulder.
“I’m not staying in this house another second.” Alexander’s expression flickered.
Was that concern?
Regret?
It vanished before Kelvin could identify it.
“Kelly—” “Don’t.” Kelvin held up a hand, cutting him off.
“Don’t say another word.
I’ll be back when I’m ready to talk.
But right now, I can’t even look at you.” He stormed past Alexander, his bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor.
He didn’t stop to put on shoes.
He didn’t stop to grab a jacket.
He just kept walking, his vision blurry with tears of anger and confusion and shame.
He reached the front door, wrenched it open, and stepped out into the cool evening air.
And he didn’t look back.
To be continued…