Before I can slide to the floor, Simon is there, solid arms catching me, his hand splaying firm and wide across my back.
“Hey,” he says, voice urgent but soft. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”
I do as he says, closing my eyes, letting his steadying presence anchor me. He smells like aftershave and clean linen, the warmth of his body radiating through my clothes. His hand moves in slow, careful circles, grounding me, not letting go even after the nausea ebbs.
We stand like that for a long minute, just the two of us in a strip of moonlight. It’s the most intimate moment we’ve ever shared—quieter, deeper than sex, a brush with vulnerability that leaves me trembling.
When I finally open my eyes, Simon is watching me with an expression I’ve never seen before—open, raw, almost gentle. The monster the world fears has vanished. In his place is a man terrified of losing me.
“Come on,” he says, voice rough, “let’s get you to bed.”
He guides me back to the bedroom, his arm tight around my waist, his thumb brushing little circles at my side. In the quiet, I let myself lean on him, grateful and a little undone.
We settle under the covers, the silence stretching easy between us. I curl into him, my head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers stroke slow circles along my bare shoulder—absentminded, soothing. I feel his breath against my hair, steady and slow, the rise and fall of his chest a lullaby.
I could fight the warmth that’s growing inside me. I could tell myself it’s just hormones, just gratitude for safety. But lying here, in the hush of his room, I don’t want to push the feeling away anymore.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For… all of this. Even the overprotective part.”
He huffs a soft laugh, and I feel it vibrate through his chest. “You get used to it.”
I lift my head, catching the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “You don’t have to be so angry at everyone else. I’m not going anywhere.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “You’re everything to me now. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, swallowing whatever confession was about to surface.
I lay my hand over his heart, feeling it race beneath my palm. “I know,” I say, softer than I mean to.
The tension between us thickens, but it’s different tonight—less about fear, more about trust, about letting go. I let myself press closer, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble that roughens his skin. He closes his eyes, surrendering to my touch, his control slipping in the gentlest way.
“I’m falling for you,” I admit, the truth spilling out before I can stop it.
His eyes snap open, searching mine with a hunger that’s almost painful. “Good,” he murmurs, pulling me tight against him. “I knew you would.”
That night, I let the feeling stay. I let the warmth settle in my chest, crowding out the fear, the doubt, the memories of all the times I thought I’d never be safe again.
I fall asleep with Simon’s arms around me, his fingers drawing endless circles on my skin, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t dream of escape.
Chapter Twenty - Simon
I was raised to believe that love is a liability. Attachment makes you weak, turns your sharpest instincts soft, gives your enemies leverage you can’t afford.
For years, I built my life around those rules. I learned to want without needing, to possess without ever letting anyone too close. Wanting, I could manage; needing was something I could never allow.
Until Eden.
Possession was easy. It was instinct—a primal urge to take what I wanted, to mark her as mine, to keep her within reach and under my eye. But what I feel now is different. Stronger. Wilder.
When Eden is in the room, the world falls into order. Her voice—soft, unhurried, alive with quiet humor—smooths the edges of my anger, steadies the violence I’ve spent a lifetime mastering. When she smiles at me, something tight in my chest loosens, a pressure I never realized was always there.
This morning, she wanders into my office, bare feet on the polished floor, hair still tangled from sleep.
She looks half awake, but when she sees me, her face lights up in a way that makes everything in me go still. I watch her settle on the couch, curled up like a cat, one hand absently tracing circles over her stomach. She glances at the papers on my desk and raises a brow, teasing.
“You planning on conquering a small country today?” she asks, smothering a smile.
“Not before breakfast,” I reply, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
She laughs: low, throaty, the sound curling into the quiet. It’s the kind of laugh that settles me, pulls me back to the moment, away from the plans and threats that usually keep my mind spinning.
