None of that leaves my mind. Not for a second.
My body doesn’t care what my mind remembers.
My pulse skips whenever he leans too close. My skin prickles when I catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, understated, threaded with smoke and something I can’t name. My breath hitches when he holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
It’s infuriating. It’s humiliating. It’s not fair.
By late afternoon, I’m exhausted. Not from anything physical, just from the constant tug-of-war inside me—fear v. logic, curiosity v. anger, attraction v. self-preservation. I pace from the couch to the kitchen and back again, pretending I’m stretching my legs when really I’m just trying to burn off tension that won’t go anywhere.
He watches.
Always.
Sometimes he pretends to be occupied—scrolling his phone, checking a message, replying to something in Russian. His expression doesn’t change much. Calm. Focused. Serious. But his attention keeps circling back to me like a tether.
When I move rooms, he shifts too. Not obviously. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think it was coincidence. I know better now.
If I go to the sink for water, he suddenly has a reason to check the lock on the window near it.
If I sit at the table, he chooses the seat across from me, even if there are others more comfortable.
If I retreat to the far side of the room to get space, he stays near the center, angled just enough to keep me in sight.
At one point, I test it.
I walk from the living area to the bathroom and close the door, staring at my own reflection in the mirror. My face looks almost unfamiliar—eyes too wide, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. I splash cold water on my skin and try to slow my breathing.
When I open the door again, he’s there in the hallway. Not blocking me. Not looming. Just standing within reach, glancing away like he just happened to be passing by.
“You’ve been in there a while,” he says.
“I was washing my face,” I answer.
His gaze lingers on the dampness on my cheekbones, the drops clinging to my jaw. “You look better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than when I pulled you off the street.”
It’s such a casual admission that I almost choke on it.
I brush past him and go back to the living room. He lets me. I pretend his body didn’t feel like a wall of heat when my arm brushed his sleeve.
By evening, the light outside softens into that gray-blue that makes everything inside feel muted. One of his men knocks, gives a brief report in Russian, and leaves again. I don’t catch the words, but I see the shift in Simon’s posture—alert, then relaxed. Whatever the news is, he’s not worried.
He glances at me.
“What?” I ask, more sharply than I intend.
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes,” he says.
I look down at my notebook. He’s right. The pen is hovering over the same half-finished line. My brain hasn’t been here for a while.
“I’m tired,” I say.
He studies me from where he stands near the doorway. “Then rest.”
“I don’t think I can sleep with you standing there.”
