I should leave her. Let her rest. Stop hovering like some kind of obsessive stalker.
But the thought of her waking up alone, waking up to another nightmare without anyone there to ground her, made it impossible to walk away completely.
I'd check on her. That's all. Just check on her. Make sure she stayed asleep.
I pulled the door shut with a careful click and headed down to the basement storage.
At 4:15 AM, certain that Sophie was deeply asleep, I slipped back down to the basement storage area where I kept emergency supplies. The compound's lower level was climate-controlled and organized within an inch of its life—shelves labeled and catalogued, everything in its designated place. Medical supplies. Non-perishable food. Water. Batteries. First aid kits. The paranoid infrastructure of someone who'd spent his entire life preparing for worst-case scenarios.
And in the back corner, on a shelf marked "Personal Items," the weighted blankets.
I'd purchased them six months ago. Right after becoming Pakhan. Right after the first panic attack bad enough that I'd locked myself in my office for three hours, counting to four over and over until my hands stopped shaking and I could breathe without feeling like my chest was being crushed.
My therapist had suggested trying weighted pressure. Said some people found it grounding. Said the physical sensation of weight could help calm an overactive nervous system.
So I'd bought three. Different weights, different sizes. Fifteen pounds, twenty pounds, twenty-five pounds. Intending to test them. See which one worked. Figure out if this was another coping mechanism I could add to my arsenal of techniques for managing the anxiety that never quite went away.
I'd never gotten around to it. The blankets had sat in their packaging for six months, untouched, while I told myself I'd deal with it later. When things were less chaotic. When I had time.
The fifteen-pound one was still sealed in its plastic bag. I pulled it down from the shelf, felt the weight in my arms. Substantial but not overwhelming. The package claimed it was good for people between 100-150 pounds. Sophie was maybe 110 on a good day.
Perfect.
I carried it back upstairs, moving quietly through the dark compound. My footsteps made no sound on the thick carpet. The security monitors in each hallway showed everything peaceful—guards at their posts, perimeter clear, no alerts. Just another quiet night in the Besharov compound, except for the Pakhan creeping through his own house at 4 AM with a blanket for a woman he'd bought just days ago.
The absurdity of it should have stopped me. Should have made me reconsider this entire course of action. Should have sent me back to my office to work until my eyes bled and my hands stopped shaking from something other than anxiety.
But it didn't.
The room was darker now—the city lights had dimmed as early morning approached, leaving only the faint glow of streetlamps filtering through the curtains. But it was enough to see by. Enough to make out Sophie's form on the bed.
She'd shifted since I left. No longer wrapped in her blanket fortress. Now she was curled on her side, her body in a loose fetal position, her breathing deep and even. She looked peaceful. The nightmare and panic attack might never have happened. Her face was smooth, relaxed, younger than her twenty-four years. Without the armor of consciousness, without the defensive walls she kept erected every waking moment, she looked exactly like what she was.
A girl who'd been through hell and somehow kept surviving.
I moved closer. Careful. Each step measured so the floorboards wouldn't creak. The weighted blanket was heavy in my arms, the packaging crinkling slightly as I worked it free.
The blanket itself was grey microfiber, soft to the touch, filled with tiny glass beads that distributed the weight evenly. I'd read the product description obsessively before buying it—the way the pressure was supposed to feel like a hug, the way it was supposed to calm the nervous system by activating the parasympathetic response.
I unfolded it carefully. Shook it out as quietly as I could. Then I draped it over Sophie, starting at her shoulders and letting it settle down to her feet.
The effect was immediate. Her body settled deeper into the mattress under the weight. Her breathing, already deep, became even more regular. Her face relaxed further, the tiny line between her eyebrows smoothing completely.
One hand emerged from under the pillow—small, delicate, the fingers slightly curled. She reached for the edge of the blanket, pulled it closer in her sleep, tucked it under her chin.
The gesture was so unconsciously vulnerable it made my chest go tight.
She made a small sound. Not distressed. Not scared. Just . . . content. The kind of noise someone made when they finally, finally felt safe enough to let go completely.
Something in me cracked. Something I'd been keeping carefully controlled and locked down and manageable. Some wall between professional concern and personal need that I couldn't seem to maintain anymore.
I shouldn't touch her. Should leave right now. Should go back to my office and my work and my carefully constructed emotional distance.
But my hand was already moving. Betraying me. Reaching out with a mind of its own.
I brushed a strand of honey-colored hair away from her face. The strands were silk under my fingertips. Warm from her skin. I tucked it behind her ear, careful not to disturb her, let my fingers linger for just a moment against her cheek.
Her skin was soft. Warm. Real in a way that made everything else feel theoretical.
