The room is thick with threat even after he’s gone. I don’t move. My mind spins, torn between the memory of Simon’s gentle hands last night and the violence I see now. He turns toward me slowly, face unreadable, but when his eyes meet mine, some of the darkness fades.
He wipes his hands on a towel and comes closer. “You shouldn’t have to see that,” he says.
My throat is dry. “It’s your world; I’ve seen it before. Remember?”
He nods, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. “Not all of it.”
I know the truth. If I let myself love him—really love him—I’m not just letting him into my life. I’m opening myself up to all of this. The danger, the brutality, the endless tightrope walk between fear and safety.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m strong enough. Other times, I wonder if I even have a choice anymore.
Simon seems to sense the shift in me. He doesn’t crowd or demand. Instead, he does something unexpected.
He appoints a maid—a quiet, older woman with kind eyes and a gentle touch—to help around the apartment. She comes in the mornings, sweeps through the rooms with silent efficiency, tidies the kitchen, brings fresh fruit and tea without asking. She always smiles at me, never pushes conversation, but her presence is a balm.
At first, I resent it. I don’t want to be coddled, don’t want to feel more like a kept thing. But as days pass, I realize the care isn’t just about control—it’s about Simon’s fear. His need to protect, to give me comfort in the only ways he knows how.
When I watch him linger in the kitchen door as the maid folds fresh linens, I see a man trying to build a shelter out of small, careful acts.
It makes resistance harder. Every time I try to harden my heart, he chips away at my walls with gestures I never expect.
Late one evening, after a long day spent restless and nauseous, I sit curled up on the living room sofa, a blanket pulled to my chin. The city hums beyond the glass, headlights tracing patterns across the ceiling.
I’m tired—bone-deep tired—but I can’t settle. My stomach twists, unsettled, and every little sound grates against my nerves.
Simon’s been gone for hours, out handling something he wouldn’t talk about. I told myself I wouldn’t worry, but when the door finally clicks open, I have to bite back a sigh of relief.
He comes in quieter than usual, his expression soft but cautious, as if he’s reading my mood from across the room. There’s something in his hand—a small white paper bag, crumpled at the top. He stands in front of me for a second, silent, then kneels beside the sofa.
“I brought you something,” he says, voice low, almost hesitant.
He sets the bag in my lap. Inside, there’s a little box of lemon candies—bright yellow, individually wrapped. I stare at them, blinking, confused for a second.
He clears his throat, glancing away. “You said the nausea was worse today. My mother used to keep these for my brother and me when we were sick. I thought they might help.”
The simple care in his words hits me harder than I want to admit. I stare at the candies, then at him. Simon Sharov, feared by half the city, bringing me sweets for morning sickness.It’s so ordinary, so absurdly gentle, that my chest aches with the force of it.
“Thank you,” I say, barely more than a whisper.
He shrugs, uncomfortable with the attention, but doesn’t move away. He waits, watching as I unwrap a candy and tuck it into my cheek. The sour burst makes me flinch at first, then eases the nausea just enough to breathe easier.
Simon relaxes by degrees, tension bleeding out of his posture. “Better?”
“A little,” I admit. I want to say more—to tell him how much it means, how the gesture cracks something in me I thought was impenetrable. But the words won’t come. Instead, I lean forward, resting my forehead against his.
His breath catches. I feel his hands come up, hesitant at first, then steady as they cup my face. His eyes search mine for a long, silent moment.
All the darkness, all the violence, all the bruising edges that make up his world—they’re still there, but tonight, I see only the man who remembers his mother’s remedies, who listens when I complain, who brings me a silly box of lemon drops because he wants to help.
Something quiet and fragile shifts inside me, a truth I can’t keep pretending doesn’t exist.
I’m falling for him. I’m already halfway gone.
It terrifies me, and it frees me all at once.
Chapter Eighteen - Simon
I’ve never brought anyone in here. Not lovers, not family, not even my brother. My office is a sanctuary, a war room, a place built on secrets and blood. The weight of power hums in every corner—gunmetal glints from drawers, maps and files fan out across the desk, and the security feed flickers on a darkened monitor. No softness. No weakness.
