“Nothing,” I say, smiling. “Just… thinking.”
He cocks his head, suspicious but amused. “About?”
I could say anything. I could tease him again, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “About you.”
For a heartbeat, he’s thrown. The mask slips. He swallows, and I watch the struggle play out on his face—desire, caution, vulnerability.
I realize, suddenly, how fragile this is. How much it means for him to let me in at all.
“I hope it’s good,” he says, his mouth curving into the faintest smile.
I nod. “It is.”
The air between us feels charged, trembling with everything neither of us will say. He goes back to his papers, but I see the way his hand shakes, the way he keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
Later, when he walks me to my room, he pauses at the door, lingering in the hallway’s half dark. I reach out, catching his hand, letting my thumb trace over the scar on his knuckle. “Stay with me?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just steps inside and closes the door behind him.
***
The apartment’s rhythm is changing—sharper, more alive with tension as my body grows heavier, slower, and Simon’s world closes in around us.
I feel the difference everywhere: in the guards’ sidelong glances, the way the housekeeper hurries out of a room when Simon enters, and especially in the way he tracks every moment I spend with anyone but him.
I’m padding down the main hallway one afternoon, a glass of water in hand, the sunlight painting gold rectangles across the marble floor.
One of Simon’s men, Anton—I’ve heard Simon call him that—waits at the end of the hall, radio clipped to his vest. He nods as I approach, polite but distant.
“Miss Eden,” he says, a trace of concern in his voice. “Do you need anything? More water, maybe?”
Before I can answer, Simon’s presence fills the space behind me. I don’t hear him coming—I never do—but suddenly he’s there, stepping between us with a coldness that chills the hallway. His stare pins Anton where he stands.
“You want to help her, you come to me first,” Simon says quietly, but his voice carries all the threat of a gun cocking in a dark room. “Understand?”
Anton’s eyes dart to mine, then to Simon. He nods quickly, voice barely a murmur. “Yes, sir.”
Simon doesn’t say another word. He stands between us until Anton backs away, disappearing into the stairwell.
Only when we’re alone does Simon let out a breath and turn to me, his expression shifting—less cruel, more concerned.
I know I shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t feel the heat that pools in my chest at the ferocity of his possessiveness.
Something about the way he guards me—not just from the world, but from his own people—makes me feel claimed, anchored in a way I’ve never been before.
He takes the glass from my hand and gives me a once-over. “You need to sit down,” he says, guiding me gently back toward the living room.
His hand is firm at my elbow, never rough but impossible to escape. I roll my eyes and follow, hiding my smile behind the rim of my water.
Pregnancy is its own battle. Some days, I want nothing but to curl up alone and shut out the world, Simon included. Other days, I crave him so intensely it leaves me breathless, embarrassed by how much I want his attention, his comfort, his hands on my skin. The two urges war inside me, making me restless and raw.
The craving for closeness wins tonight.
***
Later, the house is quiet, shadows thick in the corners. I wander out into the hall, needing air, maybe just an excuse tofind him. My stomach twists with nerves and hunger, or maybe just the baby reminding me who’s in charge now.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea crashes over me. I stop, clutching the wall, vision tunneling. My knees threaten to buckle, the hallway flickering gray and white.
