Small comforts. Things she can’t easily reject, things she’ll tell herself she isn’t grateful for while her body disagrees. Food delivered that she actually likes—no generic takeout, nothing greasy and forgettable. Real meals. Tea instead of coffee when I notice she drinks more of it. An extra blanket folded on the back of the couch. A charger for her laptop, placed where she’ll find it without having to ask.
Controlled proximity. Not just looming over her like a threat, but sitting close enough she gets used to my presence. Not touching, but always there. Always within reach. Always the nearest solid thing when the world outside makes her flinch.
Moments where I’m more than the monster she thinks I am.
I know how people form bonds. I know how dependence is built—slowly, through repeated need and consistent fulfillment. I’ve used it on enemies and allies. I’ve never wanted to use it like this.
I’m already doing it.
When she runs out of clean clothes, new ones appear in a bag on the chair. Nothing flashy. Nothing suggestive. Just comfortable things in her size, things she can wear and tell herself it’s only practicality.
When her shoulders ache from tension, I notice the way she rubs her neck. The next day, I move the cushions, adjust the chair, reposition the lamp so the light’s softer. I don’t mention it. I don’t have to. She feels the difference.
Whenever the city howls outside—sirens, shouts, distant chaos—I’m there. Between her and the door. Between her and the window. Between her and anything that sounds like it might hurt her.
Bit by bit, I watch it land.
She stops jumping every time my men knock. She starts moving around the apartment without constantly checking where I am. Eden still doesn’t trust me, but she’s starting to allow my presence as a fact.
Which is exactly where I want her.
Later, as the sky darkens and the city lights up in fractured gold, she stands near the window, hands wrapped around a mug. I told one of my men to bring chamomile. She drank it without complaining. That alone feels like a victory.
She stares out at the street for a long time.
Then she says, without turning, “You can’t keep me here forever.”
I lean against the doorway, arms folded. “I know.”
She glances back, eyes narrow. “Do you?”
I say nothing. The truth is complicated. The truth is that I already know Iwon’twant to let her walk away. Letting her see that now would be a mistake.
“You’re keeping me locked away,” she says, voice shaking. “You have men outside, watching every move I make, and you act like it’s—what? Protection? Control? You never asked what I wanted.”
“I know what you’d say,” I reply.
“Do you?” She turns fully now, anger bright in her eyes. “What would I say?”
“That you want to leave.”
“Idowant to leave, Simon.”
Her voice cracks on my name. That crack hits something inside me I don’t like.
“I want to go back to my life,” she continues, words spilling out faster now. “To my work. To my friends. To a reality where I’m not… stuck in some kind of gilded cage because a man with guns and men and power decided I walked too close to the wrong thing.”
The tremble in her voice is fear. The heat behind it is rage. Both make her cheeks flush, her chest rise and fall faster. Her hands shake around the mug. She’s exhausted and furious and scared and stillstanding.
“I’m not an object you can just put on a shelf because you find me interesting,” she says. “You don’t own me.”
I push off the doorway and move toward her without thinking.
She takes an instinctive step back, then stops herself, squaring her shoulders like she refuses to be chased in her own personal space.
“I don’t want to be here,” she says again, softer now. “You can’t keep me locked away just because you’ve decided it.”
“Yes,” I say quietly. “I can.”
