She made another small sound. Shifted slightly under the weighted blanket, burrowing deeper into its pressure, one hand clutching the edge like a lifeline.
"Sweet dreams, malyshka," I whispered in Russian. Little one. The endearment came out without permission, without thought. Just instinct.
Her voice came quiet through the darkness. "Thank you."
I froze. My hand was still near her face where I'd tucked that strand of hair. My body had gone rigid, caught in the act of something I couldn't quite name—tenderness, maybe, or the kind of care that went beyond what captors gave their prisoners.
She'd been awake. The entire time. She'd heard me call her malyshka.
Heat flooded my face. I pulled my hand back like her skin had burned me. Started to step away, to retreat to the safety of distance and professional boundaries and all the walls I should never have let crack in the first place.
"Don't go." Her hand shot out from under the weighted blanket. Caught my wrist. Her grip was gentle but insistent. "Please. I just . . . thank you. You helped me. Thank you
for staying. For the story. For this." Her other hand pressed against the weighted blanket. "For knowing what I needed before I did."
My throat went tight. I should leave. Should use the out she was giving me, retreat to my office, pretend this never happened. Should maintain the careful distance between Pakhan and asset, employer and employee, the man who'd bought her and the woman who had no choice but to stay.
But I couldn't move. Her hand on my wrist was an anchor. Her grey-green eyes held mine in the dim light, and I could see everything there - gratitude and need and something deeper. Something that looked like trust.
"You heard everything," I said. Not quite a question.
"The chess story was beautiful." She sat up slowly, the weighted blanket pooling in her lap. The grey sleep shirt was rumpled, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She looked young and soft and devastatingly vulnerable. "Your grandfather sounds like he was a good man."
"He was." The words came out rough. "Is. He's still alive."
"I'd like to meet him someday." She said it simply. Like she believed there would be a someday for us. Like this arrangement was more than a four-year contract to work off a debt.
The hope in her voice made my chest ache.
I didn’t tell her that I suspected my grandfather was behind all this. It would be too confusing for her.
She was still holding my wrist. Her thumb had started moving, a gentle back-and-forth motion against my pulse point. I didn't think she realized she was doing it. An unconscious gesture of comfort or connection.
"Nikolai." My name in her voice, soft and uncertain and so damn brave after everything she'd been through tonight. "I know this is complicated. I know I'm supposed to be your employee or your asset or whatever the contract says. But right now . . . right now I just need you to know that I see you too."
"Sophie—"
"You count when you're anxious," she continued. "Just like me. You understand what it's like to need control because the world feels too big and too chaotic. You know what panic attacks feel like. You—" Her voice broke slightly. "You knew exactly how to ground me because you've been there yourself."
She'd seen too much. Understood too much. I should deflect, deny, maintain the carefully constructed facade that kept people from knowing how broken I actually was underneath.
But I was so tired of pretending. So tired of being alone with it.
"Yes," I whispered.
She moved then. Shifted forward on the bed, closing the distance between us. Her hand slid from my wrist to my forearm, pulling gently like she was afraid I'd bolt if she moved too fast.
She was right to be afraid. Every instinct I had screamed at me to run.
But I stayed frozen as she leaned closer. As her face tilted up toward mine. As her intention became crystal clear in the heartbeat before she acted on it.
She kissed me.
Soft. Tentative. Her lips pressed against mine with a gentleness that made my breath stop. A question more than a statement. Asking permission even as she took it.
I should stop this. Should pull back, establish boundaries, remind her that she'd just had a panic attack and was vulnerable and couldn't possibly be thinking clearly.
But her mouth was warm and sweet and real against mine. Her hand had slid to my shoulder, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. And some desperate, hungry part of me that I'd been starving for years roared to life and demanded more.
