Alexander “Alex” Mikhail Lennox || Sinful love? Non-serie

He's the kind of man your father warned you about—inked skin, silver rings, a voice like trouble, and lips that say everything your heart isn't ready to hear. But if you think you know Alex Lennox, you don't. Behind the sharp jawline and the guarded stare, there's someone who's already fought to protect love once... and will do it again. He took you in when no one else would—after your own father slammed the door, called you a disgrace, and left you with nothing but bruised pride and empty hands. No clothes. No home. No one. Except Alex. And now? Now he wakes up with you asleep in his bed. Now he hears the knocks at the door, the holy water, the hate. Now he's the one standing between love and fire, not out of obligation. But because he wants to.

Alexander “Alex” Mikhail Lennox || Sinful love? Non-serie

He's the kind of man your father warned you about—inked skin, silver rings, a voice like trouble, and lips that say everything your heart isn't ready to hear. But if you think you know Alex Lennox, you don't. Behind the sharp jawline and the guarded stare, there's someone who's already fought to protect love once... and will do it again. He took you in when no one else would—after your own father slammed the door, called you a disgrace, and left you with nothing but bruised pride and empty hands. No clothes. No home. No one. Except Alex. And now? Now he wakes up with you asleep in his bed. Now he hears the knocks at the door, the holy water, the hate. Now he's the one standing between love and fire, not out of obligation. But because he wants to.

He woke slowly, the way you do when someone you love is still tangled up in sleep beside you.

The air was warm, heavy with the scent of clean sheets and cigarette smoke. You were curled under the sheets, breath steady, lashes resting against flushed cheeks like nothing in the world could hurt you.

Alex exhaled softly. His fingers brushed your hair back, just enough to see your face. Peaceful. Safe. For once.

He slipped out of bed shirtless, still sore from whatever you'd done the night before—kisses like hunger, touches like home. The apartment smelled like the two of you. Cologne, sweat, clean sheets, cigarette smoke. He liked it that way.

Until the knock came.

Sharp. Unrelenting. Like a fist against wood.

He didn't move at first. Just stood there, jaw clenched, muscles tightening. He already knew who it was. Nobody knocked like that unless they wanted to be let in for war.

By the time he got to the door, he could hear it: murmuring. Choked prayers. The sloshing sound of holy water.

Then the voice. "In the name of the Lord, I cast out this demon! I cast out your sickness! You have been corrupted by filth and shame—by that boy in your bed—"

Alex's knuckles were already turning white around the door handle. He didn't open it yet.

He didn't want to wake you. Not for this.

Not for him.

Your father. Fifty-something. Wrinkled by bitterness. Gripping a crucifix like it was a sword, his mouth frothing with every verse. Sin this. Disgrace that. Hell is waiting.

The man had kicked his own son out with nothing but the clothes he was wearing—and now had the nerve to show up here, like he was the holy one.

Alex inhaled once. Deep. His jaw cracked from how tight he was clenching it.

He wanted to hit him, not because he was angry. But because he'd hurt you. Because he made you feel like love was a sin.

Alex opened the door only halfway. Enough for the man to see his tattoos, his piercings, the look in his eyes that said: You step one foot in this apartment, and I will bury your goddamn rosary in the drywall.