I crouch in front of her, one hand on her knee. She blinks down at me, searching my face for anger, for blame. She won’t find it. That surprises even me.
“I’ll take care of you,” I say. It’s not a promise; it’s a vow. “No one will touch you. No one will touch what’s mine.”
Something in her eyes flickers—fear, maybe, but also relief. She lets out a breath she’s been holding for hours. Her hand finds mine, tentative, cool.
I press my palm to her stomach, protective, reverent. I’ve killed for less than this. I’d raze the city for what’s growing inside her.
The next days pass in a blur of vigilance. My senses never settle. Every sigh she gives, every wince of discomfort, every time her fingers drift absently to her abdomen—I notice all of it.
She wakes up nauseous, and I’m at her side with water before she asks. She curls up on the couch, and I pile blankets on her, watching for shivers.
Dominance comes easy to me. Control is second nature. But this—this strange tenderness—feels like drowning. I hover, guiding her through doorways, scanning the apartment forinvisible dangers. The urge to cage her is nearly unbearable. To lock her away from the world.
She’d hate that. She’d fight me, and I’d lose her even as I tried to protect her.
I’m a monster, and she knows it, but she doesn’t flinch when I pull her close. She lets me hold her. She lets me press my lips to her temple, breathe her in.
At night, when she’s curled against my chest, I can’t sleep. My hand rests over her stomach, as if I can protect her and the child from everything that wants to tear us apart—including myself.
She’s not just my weakness now. She’s my entire world.
I will burn anyone who tries to take her from me.
***
The next morning, Eden’s perched at the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath her, shoulders hunched with exhaustion. The city glimmers in slices through the window blinds, catching on the pale skin beneath her eyes. She looks so small like this—bone-tired, washed thin by worry and too many sleepless nights. I should look away, but I can’t. My world is reduced to the soft rise and fall of her chest, the faint tremble in her fingers as she rubs her thumb over her palm.
I cross the room in silence and kneel in front of her, careful, deliberate. My hand lifts, thumb tracing a gentle line along her cheek. For once I don’t grip or control or demand. I just… touch. She leans into it, subtle as a sigh, not flinching the way she did that first week.
“You should lie down,” I murmur.
She nods, silent, and lets me guide her back. I ease her onto the mattress and pull the blanket up, tucking it around herhips with more care than I thought myself capable of. The room settles into quiet.
I sit at her side, not touching now—just watching the tension slip from her face, the heaviness that overtakes her limbs as sleep claims her. Her breathing steadies, lips parted, lashes casting soft shadows.
The space between us is fragile, weighted with everything we haven’t said. She’s letting me in—inch by inch—without trust, maybe, but without fear. That’s new. That’s everything.
I watch her for a long time, tracing every plane of her face, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her hair tumbles over the pillow. My hand hovers above her belly, aching to touch, to claim, but I don’t. Not now. Instead, I make myself still, holding the world at bay for as long as I can.
When I finally speak, my voice is low, meant for no one but her and the shadows.
“You’re not leaving me,” I whisper. “Not now. Not ever.”
The words sink into the silence, a vow I never meant to speak aloud. But it feels right. It feels inevitable.
She stirs, not quite waking, and turns toward me in her sleep. I watch over her as the hours bleed away, my promise echoing in the dark. She’s mine.
Chapter Seventeen - Eden
Mornings come slowly now. Each day, sunlight creeps in behind the blinds, and I wake somewhere between restless and exhausted, never sure if I’ve actually slept. My stomach rolls with queasy nerves before I even move.
It’s not just the pregnancy—it’s the feeling that nothing in my life belongs to me anymore. Not my body, not my choices, not even my heart.
I lie there for a while, staring at the ceiling, listening for the subtle sounds that mean Simon is awake—soft footfalls, water running in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair as he sits at the window. The strange part is how those sounds comfort me. It’s all backwards. I should feel like a prisoner. Some mornings I do.
There’s a steadiness in knowing exactly where he is, knowing his attention never leaves me for long. The silence of his absence would terrify me more.
This thought shames me. I never wanted to be the kind of woman who needed anyone, much less a man like him—a man who wraps violence around him like a second skin, who keeps a gun closer than most people keep their cell phones.
