She sighs, pressing her face into my shoulder, soft and trusting.
I kiss her hair, her temple, the shell of her ear. My hand moves lower, skimming the edge of her nightshirt, exploring the new softness of her waist. She makes a sound—a plea, a question—and arches into my touch, craving the same closeness that eats at me.
I let my control slip, just a little. My hand moves under her shirt, fingers splaying across the gentle swell of her stomach. She shivers, clutching my wrist, and I feel her fear and want tangled together, sweet and sharp.
“You’re mine,” I murmur, voice thick with everything I can’t say. “I’d do anything for you.”
She turns her head, eyes shining in the low light. “I know.”
That’s all it takes. My mouth finds hers—hungry, claiming, desperate. I taste her, drink in her breath, lose myselfin the heat of her. She clings to me, nails biting into my back, legs twining with mine, heart pounding beneath my hand.
I move over her, slow at first, reverent, worshipful. My cock is already hard and I push inside of her slowly, feeling the delicious stretch.
The longer I touch her, the more I need—rougher, deeper, until she’s gasping my name, her body arching, pleading for more. I fill her, every thrust a promise, a brand, a vow that nothing will ever come between us again.
I fuck her hard, tangled in sweat and longing, the world narrowing to the space between our mouths, our bodies, our hearts.
Eden breaks for me, shuddering, moaning, her eyes locked on mine as she falls apart. I follow her, spilling into her with a violence that surprises even me, clutching her as if I could hold her—and our child—inside me forever.
Afterward, I don’t let her go. I hold her until she sleeps again, my hand never leaving her belly, my eyes fixed on the shape of our future beneath the sheets.
Chapter Nineteen - Eden
Something’s changing inside me, and I can’t hide it, not from myself, and certainly not from Simon.
At first, it’s the little things that tip me off. The way my body doesn’t tense the moment he enters a room. The way I notice his presence before I hear his voice, some secret sense alerting me to the change in the air, the scent of his cologne, the hush that settles over the apartment as soon as he crosses the threshold.
I still flinch sometimes, still feel that flicker of anxiety when his phone rings and he slips into Russian, voice dropping to a low, cold threat. But fear is no longer the loudest thing inside me.
Instead, there’s a warmth—quiet, persistent, sneaking up on me when I least expect it. It’s in the way Simon presses a glass of water into my hands when I wake up nauseous, or the way he slides his palm along my lower back in passing, steadying me before I can stumble.
He doesn’t hover, exactly, but he’s always there: a solid shape in my periphery, tense and alert, as if he’s fighting battles I can’t see.
At first, it felt like surveillance. Now it feels like safety.
I don’t want to need him, not like this. My pride resists, clinging to old habits of independence, to a belief that love is weakness and safety is something you carve out for yourself. But my heart reacts before my mind can reason with it.
I sleep better when he’s near. I breathe easier when I know he’s awake, just outside my door, keeping the monsters of his world—and my own imagination—at bay.
With this new warmth comes a kind of curiosity, a low thrum of boldness. I start to test him, just to see what happens. It’s never malicious. More like I want to see where his edges are, where I fit in the cage he’s built around both of us.
I’ll say something offhand at breakfast—a teasing remark about his overprotectiveness, or a sly comment about how he never lets anyone else make his coffee—and watch the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of amusement in his eyes before he schools his face back to neutrality.
Sometimes, when I pass him something—my phone, a pen, a mug of tea—I let my fingers brush against his wrist, linger a fraction longer than necessary. The reaction is always immediate: a slow, deliberate inhale, as if he’s measuring out patience by the breath. His eyes will find mine and hold, sharp and possessive, and for a second I can feel everything he’s holding back. It makes my pulse skip, sends heat curling low in my stomach.
It’s addictive, this game. I’m not trying to manipulate him, not really. I just like seeing the effect I have on him—the way the man who commands fear from everyone else can be undone by a glance, a touch, a word whispered at the right moment. I start to catch myself looking at him too long, letting my gaze slide over the broad set of his shoulders, the scars I’ve come to know by heart, the softness that only comes out when he thinks I’m not watching.
He notices, of course. Simon notices everything. I think he likes it, even if he pretends otherwise. I see it in the way he’ll pause in the middle of a phone call, eyes fixed on me as I move through the room, tracking every step.
Or how he’ll stand behind me in the kitchen, too close, his breath warm against my neck, his hands finding reasons to touch my hips, my waist, my arms. It’s as if he’s reminding me—and maybe himself—that I belong to him, but lately, I wonder if the power doesn’t flow both ways.
I start to test my limits in other ways too. I let myself lean into his touch when I’m tired, let him guide me to the couch when my legs feel unsteady. I don’t argue when he insists I eat, or when he tucks me into bed after a long day, even if it means ceding some control. It feels less like giving in and more like… being cared for. The distinction is subtle, but it matters. It makes all the difference.
One evening, as we sit in his office, me curled on the velvet couch with my book and him working through stacks of paper, I let the silence stretch. I set my book down and watch him for a while—his concentration, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips move as he reads something only he can understand.
He glances up, catches me staring, and for a moment the rest of the world disappears. His gaze pins me, hot and intent, and something unspoken crackles between us.
“What?” he asks quietly, voice rougher than usual.
