When i started dating alistair i knew he was jealous, hell, i knew a lot of things about him, from his anger issues to his abandonment ones, but I also knew one thing.

Alistair Caldwell is more than wrath. He is a fierce protector. He's instinctive and hot blooded cruelty.

One of his great-grandparents founded Ponderosa Springs, they came from nothing and built a legacy, they created one of the world's most wealthiest towns.

His older brother Dorian was born with hemofilia that meant, at the very least, that Alistair's parents needed to have a backup in case something happened.

His parents basically made him in a petri dish. Genetically modifying his genes so that he was Dorian's exact blood type, so that he was initially a replica of his older brother. So that if something did happen, he could give him blood, donate an organ. He was only born to be spare parts.

That had affected my boyfriend his whole life, that and the fact that neither his mother or his father ever showed an ounce of love towards him, he was just the spare, the pieces to build their golden boy if anything went wrong.

But back to what I was saying, i knew he was jealous and I couldn’t really say shit because I was a possessive bitch myself.

Not the cute, pouty kind either.

The territorial, baring teeth kind.

So when Alistair’s jaw ticked because some guy held eye contact with me half a second too long, I understood it. I felt the same cold prickle when girls lingered near him, laughing a little too loud at things that weren’t funny.

But with Alistair, jealousy wasn’t just jealousy.

When you’re born as a contingency plan, when your existence is a medical insurance policy, you learn early that love is conditional. That affection is a currency. That if someone you care about chooses someone else, you don’t just lose them — you become unnecessary.

Disposable.

That’s what they made him.

He never said it like that, of course. Alistair doesn’t do vulnerable speeches. He does clenched fists and controlled breathing. He does cold, cutting words. He does walking away before you can see the fracture in his eyes.

But I see it.

I see it when he holds me just a little too tight in crowded rooms.

When his hand settles low on my waist like he’s staking a claim.

When his gaze sharpens at any man who gets too close, too friendly.

It’s not about ego.

It’s about fear.

He was engineered to replace someone. To be harvested if necessary. To be second.

So the idea of being second with me?

Unacceptable.

One night, it finally snapped.

We were at some insufferable Caldwell charity gala — gold chandeliers, fake smiles, people who had never worried about a single bill in their lives. I was talking to some investor’s son about nothing important, just being polite, when I felt it.

That shift in the air.

Alistair.

He didn’t cause scenes. He didn’t need to. He simply appeared at my side, tall and immaculately controlled, one hand sliding around my hip.

“Is there a reason,” he said smoothly, though his fingers dug in just enough to warn me, “you’re monopolizing my girlfriend’s time?”

the guy stammered something, looking between us before he apologised and walked away

“Holy shit, you're actually jealous.” I smiled, leaning closer.

“Yes, love, I’m jealous.” He splayed his hand over the small of my back and tugged me toward him. “I’m jealous of the clothes that hold you when I can’t, the sheets on your bed that caress your skin every night, and the objects that feel your hands. So, when the asshole of our town walks into my gala and starts talking to the woman I love with what can only be considered intense familiarity, and then has the audacity to ask her out right in front of me, naturally, I’m going to get jealous.” He brought our bodies flush, his chest solid and unyielding against mine, his jaw tight but his eyes—his eyes weren’t angry.

They were afraid.

Not wild, not irrational.

Afraid of losing something he never believed he was allowed to keep.

I lifted a brow, still smiling, but softer now. “You do realize I didn’t even know his name, right?”