We stand like that for a long time, the world falling away until it’s just us in the quiet. I walk her to the bedroom, hands never leaving her, unwilling to give even an inch of distance.
In the dark, I undress her slowly, reverently, my lips trailing over the lines of her body, worshipping every curve, every new softness. I settle behind her, spooning her close, my hand splaying protectively over her stomach.
She turns in my arms, meeting my gaze in the low light. “He’s nothing to us,” she whispers, but I hear the flicker of worry. It only steels my resolve.
“Anyone who tries to touch you,” I say, voice cold and sure, “will answer to me. I swear it.”
Her fingers curl around mine, squeezing tight. I hold her through the night, letting her warmth seep into my bones, vowing silently over and over again: Cortez, the Bratva, the whole fucking world—none of them will ever lay a hand on her. Not while I breathe.
She drifts to sleep with her head on my chest, our child safe beneath my hand. In the darkness, I make myself another promise: I will never let go.
I will never let the world take her from me.
That’s not just a threat. It’s the only truth I have left.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Eden
Simon’s protectiveness has always been sharp—something that presses against my ribs like a second heartbeat—but after the gala, it becomes something else entirely. Something heavier. Constant. It coils around me like invisible hands, guiding my movements even when he isn’t touching me.
I notice it first the morning after. His gaze finds me every time I shift in my chair. Every time I stand, his eyes track me with a heat that’s equal parts hunger and vigilance.
When I leave a room, I feel his stare follow me to the doorway and linger there until I return. When I walk down the hall, two guards I’ve never met fall into step behind me.
“Viktor goes with you.”
His voice has an edge I haven't heard in weeks—sharp, cold, dangerous. The guards snap to attention so quickly it makes me blink.
The intensity presses in on me, thick and electric. It should make me feel trapped. It should make me want to scream. But instead… it does the opposite.
Every clipped order, every irritated look he throws at his men, every time his hand sweeps across my lower back to guide me away from a window—each one hits me with a warmth that scares me more than the danger itself.
I shouldn’t crave this. I shouldn’t want the attention of a man who could tear the world apart with his bare hands. Except safety has a strange flavor: warm, dark, addictive.
I feel safer under his obsession than I ever did outside of it.
***
That afternoon, I slip outside for air. There’s a little enclosed courtyard. It’s nothing opulent, but it’s beautiful. The roses bloom along the back wall, and the fountain murmurs in the corner, serene and oblivious. I breathe in the cold bite of autumn.
For a moment, I pretend this life is normal. That I could wander where I want without guards trailing me or shadows lurking just out of sight.
The fantasy cracks when I hear footsteps on gravel.
I turn. A man approaches across the garden path, wearing a crisp brown delivery uniform and holding a small parcel. He looks perfectly ordinary—polite smile, badge clipped to his breast pocket—but something about the way he walks toward me makes my stomach twist.
“Miss Eden?” he asks pleasantly. “Package for Mr. Sharov. He usually signs himself, but I saw you here—”
My throat tightens.
His eyes don’t match the smile. They’re scanning. Measuring. Probing.
He angles his body slightly, blocking the narrow path back to the patio. Too close. Too casual. Too wrong.
“Actually,” I say, stepping back, “I’m not signing anything.”
His brows lift in an expression that might fool anyone else, but my pulse spikes.
“Oh, it’s just a small delivery.” He holds up the parcel. “No trouble at all, miss. Takes a second.”
