Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Fourteen: Xander Winters

This chapter contains elements of rape in it. Please read at your own discretion.

Bria's POV

Xander stroked my hair. His calloused fingers, worn down by experience and expertise, combed through the strands on my head and twirled my locks, almost as if to win my heart over.

He did this every night with me, and I with him. He treated me kindly; he gave me the best of the very best, refused to let me down, and always—always—kept his promises. Xander was a tall man—taller than Harry by a few inches—and had cold, gray eyes. His hair was black and soft and was always combed in the same style—the same I had seen on him for three years now. He was, by all means, the most attractive person I had ever come to meet.

But it'd be an absolute horror to say I was even remotely attracted to him.

We sat in bed together, me in my nightgown and him still in his business suit, sitting at the edge of the mattress. My head was in his lap; he was busy looking at files on his phone. Tonight was a good night; he hadn't been drinking.

"Do you want anything, Bambi?" he crooned, pulling the screen away from himself to look at me, "Food? Something to—?"

"I'm okay," I replied hastily. "I ate earlier."

My tone would never have implied uneasiness, but I was completely mortified by him.

"Bria...cute name," Xander remarked three years ago. We were standing in the handicap stall of the men's bathroom at the Vancouver Convention Center. He had placed a cleaning sign on the entrance to the bathroom itself to ensure we had the utmost privacy at the classiest meeting place he could find.

Xander Winters, CEO of Phoenix Industries, and I talked previously on the phone about a business deal: Harry and I would work for him in exchange for the use of Phoenix's safe houses across the continents. It was getting tiresome and pricey to jump from hotel to hotel. Xander was dressed in an expensive suit and a crimson tie and looked very much like the man I had pictured in my head, although much younger than I had intended—perhaps a year or two older than I was—and I wondered how such a successful person could be so youthful; I was a con artist but he had a business of his own.

"Don't sweet talk me, Winters," I scoffed. "I need this job and I need two positions: one for me and one for my boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" he raised an eyebrow, "Who might the lucky guy be?"

"That's none of your business. I can assure you that our quality of work is the best of the best—"

"You said you specialized in fieldwork—conning, am I correct?"

"Yes. I also speak French, Spanish, and Russian, I'm good at negotiating—"

"What about computers? How well can you operate them?"

"My partner does that. He's cracked the CIA a number of times without so much as cramps in his fingers from typing so quickly. We're a team; you're not going to get one without the other."

"What's his name?"

"Harry Styles. Middle name Ed—"

"I won't need that," he stated, typing the information onto his phone and waiting for a bit before his eyes widened at the screen. He showed me a picture of him and asked, "This him?"

I nodded at the picture of the man I loved—the same man that I had denied my hand but still cared about greatly. His dark hair, recently dyed and straightened for the con in Salem, framed his face nicely and gave way to the emerald in his eyes.