I turn and leave because staying would unravel me further. I close the door behind me and walk down the hallway with a pulse that refuses to slow, mind racing through every second of what just happened.
Control slipped tonight. I felt it the moment my fingers touched her hair. I’m sure she felt it too.
Chapter Eleven - Eden
I spend the morning pretending to read while really watching him.
Simon moves through my apartment like a man with purpose. Nothing about his presence feels casual. Every movement is controlled. He pours coffee without spilling a drop. He checks his phone with attention that feels surgical. Even the way he leans against the counter looks intentional, like he has calculated exactly how much space he is taking up and what it means.
I sit at the table with my notebook open, pen resting on the blank page. I should be writing something for my research, but every time I try to form a thought about behavior in urban spaces, I end up circling the one human subject in the room I have no idea how to classify.
He is not pacing today. That almost bothers me more. He stands near the window, one hand in his pocket, watching the street below. I wonder how many of the people passing down there belong to him. I wonder how many know they do.
My research on the Sharov family keeps flickering through my mind. Lukyan Sharov, the cousin who appears in glossy photos and rumors. Whispers about “the family” underneath the wealth. Organized crime. Territory. Missing people. Clara’s article and the way she vanished after she touched their world.
And Simon. The man who rarely appears in photos but stands in the background when he does. The one the captions barely mention. The one everyone overlooks until it matters.
Seeing his name on a screen felt distant and terrifying. Seeing him now, in my kitchen, drinking my coffee while twoarmed men stand in the hallway outside, feels worse in a way that is harder to name.
He turns away from the window. His eyes sweep the room and land on me. I look down at my notebook too late to pretend I wasn’t staring.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“Do you want me to perform?” I ask. The retort slips out before I can stop it.
One corner of his mouth tilts up. Not a smile. Something else. “I want you to act natural.”
“This is my natural.” I tap my pen once. “Taking notes in my head. Trying to figure people out.”
“Have you figured me out?” he asks.
I meet his gaze. “Not even close.”
He nods once, as if that answer satisfies him, then walks closer. My heartbeat picks up automatically. He’s not even doing anything threatening. He’s walking. Existing. Yet every step tightens something in my chest.
When he reaches the table, he stops a respectable distance away. Respectable for anyone else. For him, it feels like a decision. He could have crowded me. He could have boxed me in against the chair. Yesterday he did. Today he doesn’t.
“Write,” he says.
I frown. “About what?”
“Whatever you usually write about when you watch people.” His tone is calm. “Consider this practice.”
I should say no. I should tell him to get out. Instead, my hand moves on its own. The pen touches paper. My pulse thuds against my wrist as I write the words exactly as they form in my mind.
Controlled posture. Measured speech. High threat, low volatility. Simon’s dangerous, but not impulsive.
I stop, aware that he can see the lines if he leans forward even a little. My cheeks heat. I snap the notebook shut.
He watches my hands, then my face again. “You think I’m not impulsive?”
“I watched you decide not to kill me,” I reply. My voice comes out too honest. “I don’t think a man who acts on impulse would have done that.”
His eyes darken a fraction. “You keep bringing up your death like I’m still going to make that decision.”
“You brought me to a warehouse,” I say quietly. “Forgive me for staying on topic.”
Something sharp flickers across his expression and then smooths away. He pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits, shoulders relaxed, legs slightly apart, arms resting loosely on the table. Everything about the pose looks like calm, except I can feel the energy under his skin from here.
