"The clinic has an anonymous donation covering reduced-fee care for six months," I continued. "Your regulars have been contacted through secure channels, given her address, told their previous doctor arranged it before relocating. They don't know where you are or who's funding it. They just know someone's still looking out for them."
The sound she made—half laugh, half sob—hit me like a physical blow.
"Kostya." My name in her mouth, broken with gratitude. "I don't know what to—I can't—"
"You don't have to say anything." I wanted to touch her. Wanted to close the distance and pull her against me, feel her heartbeat against my chest. Instead, I stayed where I was. "I just needed you to know that when you tell me something matters,I hear it. I act on it. That's what trust looks like. Not promises. Proof."
She stood from the desk, and for a moment I thought she might come to me—might cross the space between us and test my resolve again. Part of me wanted her to. Part of me was terrified she would.
But she just stood there, folder clutched against her chest like something precious, tears tracking silently down her cheeks.
"Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for hearing me."
"Always," I said, and meant it in ways that scared me. "Tonight, after dinner—I want to talk. About what we discussed. About what we're building. Will you come to my room?"
She nodded, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yes."
"Eight o'clock. And Maya?" I waited until her eyes met mine. "Eat lunch. All of it."
The command landed differently now, weighted with everything I'd just shown her. She heard it for what it was—not control, but care. Not dominance, but devotion.
"I will," she promised.
I made myself leave before I could compromise everything I was trying to build.
Eighto'clock.
I'd spent the hours preparing—reading Nikolai's journal twice more, arranging the room so we could sit close but not too close, trying to anticipate every question she might ask. The kittens were fed and sleeping in their box. The compound was quiet, most of the household settled for the evening.
When she knocked, I had to take a breath before opening the door.
She'd changed since this afternoon—soft sleep pants and a oversized t-shirt, face scrubbed clean, hair down around her shoulders. No makeup, no calculation, no armor. Just Maya, looking up at me with those hazel eyes that held equal parts hope and terror.
"Come in."
She entered slowly, taking in the room—the two chairs I'd positioned near the window, the soft lighting, the deliberate absence of anything that might feel like pressure. I'd thought carefully about the space. Bed visible but not central. Door unlocked. Everything saying:you're safe here, and you can leave whenever you want.
"Sit," I said, gesturing to one of the chairs. "Please."
She did, pulling her knees up to her chest immediately—that tell she didn't know she had, making herself smaller when things felt too big. I took the other chair, close enough to touch if either of us reached, far enough to give her space.
"I've been thinking about this all day," she admitted quietly. "About what you said. About structure."
"And?"
"And I'm terrified." The honesty in her voice made my chest tight. "Not of you. Of wanting this as much as I do. Of trusting someone again after—" She stopped, swallowed. "The last person I trusted with this part of me used it to destroy my career."
“Marlon?”
She nodded. "Marlon. I’m afraid of trusting someone with the soft parts and having them weaponized."
"Then we build something different." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, bringing myself closer to her level. "Something with rules we both agree to. Boundaries that protect you. Structure you can test without it breaking."
"How?"
"You tell me what you need. I tell you what I need. We negotiate until we're both certain. And then—" I held her gaze. "Then I prove, every single day, that I'm worthy of what you're trusting me with."
The silence stretched between us, full of everything we were both afraid to want.
