I pass a pair of guards in the hall. They tip their heads to me. It’s subtle, but I feel the shift—the acknowledgment of my place at the center of his world. Not a guest. Not a captive. Something else entirely. Someone they will protect, maybe even die for, because I matter to him.
The realization makes my skin prickle. I’m not sure I like it. I’m not sure I hate it, either.
The afternoon stretches on. I drift through the garden, memories of last night flickering at every turn: the place where hands grabbed me, where fear nearly drowned me, where Miron’s men bled and killed in my name. I stand in the sunlight, arms wrapped around myself, the scent of lilac clinging to the air. I feel the weight of everything—my own fragility, his violence, the strange intimacy that’s blossomed between us like a secret.
When I head back inside, Miron finds me in the hall. He stops a few feet away, studying me with that same unwavering gaze. “You should rest,” he says quietly. “The house is safe. No one will touch you.”
I want to ask him if he believes that, if anyone is truly safe in his world. Instead, I nod, the words caught behind my teeth. I let him lead me back to his room, where the bed is already turned down, a glass of water set on the table.
Night falls early, shadows pooling in corners. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him move around the room—taking calls, reading messages, murmuring orders in Russian. He glances at me from time to time, his expression unreadable.
I find myself wanting to speak, to thank him, to ask a thousand questions. The words won’t come. I feel raw andexposed, my heart a live wire. He sits beside me at last, close enough to touch, but leaves a sliver of space between us. His presence is steady, anchoring. I realize, with a kind of dizzy certainty, that I am no longer just caught in his orbit. I am the center of it.
He sits so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, a heat that makes my skin tingle with awareness. His hand rests between us on the bed, fingers splayed, close enough that if I shifted even an inch, we would touch. The urge to reach out, to bridge that tiny gap, is almost overwhelming. My thoughts scramble, words tangling in my mouth.
Miron breaks the silence first, his voice low, rough around the edges. “You’re safe here.” He glances sideways at me, as if searching for some sign I believe him. I nod, still unable to speak, but I think he knows what’s going on inside me. He always seems to.
His gaze lingers, softer than I’ve ever seen it. Not cold, not guarded—just tired, maybe, or grateful. I wonder if he feels as exposed as I do, stripped of all the armor we’ve both worn for so long.
I shift, just a fraction, and my knee brushes his thigh. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his palm up, a silent invitation. My fingers slip into his, tentative at first, then firmer when he doesn’t let go. The contact steadies me, grounding me in the moment.
We sit like that for a while, nothing but the sound of our breathing filling the room. The mansion outside our door is hushed, held at bay by the four walls of this space. For the first time in days, my fear recedes, replaced by something I can’t name—something that feels suspiciously like hope.
I close my eyes, letting myself lean into the silence. I may not have all the answers, and I may never feel entirely safe in his world.
Right now, sitting beside him in the dusk, I realize I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Night slips through the windows, laying soft shadows over the bed. Miron’s presence lingers long after he’s left the room—his warmth in the sheets, the faint echo of his voice promising safety, the brush of his fingers closing around mine.
I lie curled in the darkness, blankets drawn to my chin, mind racing. My heart pounds, tripping over itself with thoughts I never wanted to have.
I watch the ceiling, counting the shapes the moon carves on plaster. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face: the tension in his jaw, the crack in his voice when he promised I’d be safe, the look he gave me like I was the only thing tethering him to this world.
My chest tightens, breath catching, every nerve strung high and taut.
I try to picture leaving—just walking out the door, slipping away while the house sleeps, calling Izzy or catching a bus out of the city.
The idea hovers for a second before dissolving. I imagine myself out there in the world, far from these walls, and all I feel is emptiness.
Fear, yes. Grief, sharper. A need so fierce it makes me curl tighter beneath the blankets, as if I could squeeze the ache out of my bones.
At last, I sit up, restless. My feet find the cool wood floor. The mansion is silent. I pad into the hall, past the portraits andthe watchful eyes of Miron’s men, who nod at me, wordless. I hesitate at his door, pressing my palm to the dark wood.
He’s awake. I hear the low sound of his voice, a clipped order in Russian, the click of a laptop closing. I open the door a fraction. He’s at his desk, lamplight sharpening the hollows under his eyes.
He looks up, surprise flickering across his face before he schools it away. “Can’t sleep?” His voice is gentle, wary.
I step inside, closing the door softly behind me. My hands twist in the hem of my shirt. “Neither can you, apparently.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Someone has to keep watch.”
I drift closer, drawn by a gravity I can’t fight. I perch on the edge of his bed, knees pulled to my chest. For a moment, silence stretches between us, heavy with things unsaid.
He stands, crosses the room to sit beside me. Our shoulders touch, barely, but it’s enough. I let out a shaky breath. “I keep thinking about what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come,” I whisper. “If they’d taken me.”
His hand closes over mine, strong and certain. “They didn’t. They won’t get another chance.”
I study his face in the warm lamplight: the fresh bandage at his ribs, the bruise blooming along his jaw, the fierce focus in his eyes. “You risked everything. You’re still bleeding. Why?”
