Time crawls by with agonizing slowness, every minute feeling like an hour while I wait for the sedatives to kick in.
He pulls me closer against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. "I've been thinking about some changes at the estate."
"What kind of changes?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady, watching his eyes for any sign of drowsiness.
"Your room," he says. "It's too dark, not enough windows. I want to knock down the wall to the adjacent room, make it bigger, add floor-to-ceiling windows on the south side so you get natural light all day."
"That sounds nice," I whisper.
"And I'm thinking about getting a dog," he continues, his voice still clear, still alert. "Maybe two. Big ones, German Shepherds or Dobermans, trained for protection but good with families. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Having dogs around?"
"I would," I say softly.
"They'd be yours," he says, his hand moving up to stroke my hair. "Your dogs, not mine. They'd sleep in your room, follow you everywhere, make sure you're never alone, never unsafe." My heart breaks a little more with every word.
"I've also been working on the security system," he says. "I know you don't feel safe there, I know you think I'm the danger, but there are other threats. I want you to have access to panic rooms on every floor, direct lines to my men, cameras you can control from your phone so you always know who's in the house."
"Ilay—"
"Let me finish," he says gently. "I know I haven't made you feel safe. I know I've been the thing you're afraid of. But I want to change that. I want you to feel like the estate is your home, not your prison." I watch his eyes, hoping to see them growing heavy, but they're still focused on me, still clear.
"What else?" I ask, needing to keep him talking, needing to wait for the drug to work. "
The gardens," he says. "I want to redo the gardens for you. Right now they're all just hedges and boring shit. I want to plant your favorite flowers, whatever you want. Roses? Peonies? You tell me and I'll have them planted everywhere."
"I like lavender," I whisper.
"Lavender," he repeats, smiling. "Then we'll have fields of it. You can walk through it every morning, cut it for your room, whatever you want." He shifts slightly, adjusting me against him. "And I've been thinking about us taking a trip. Somewhere warm. Maybe Greece? The islands? We could rent a villa on the water, just the two of us for two weeks."
"That sounds perfect," I say, tears starting to blur my vision.
"We could learn to scuba dive," he continues. "Or just lay on the beach all day. I've never done that, just laid on a beach doing nothing. Have you?"
"No," I say quietly.
"Then we'll do it together," he says. "Our first time doing something normal, something peaceful. I want to give you normal things, Iris. I want to be the kind of man who takes you on beach vacations, not the kind who makes you afraid." I can't hold back the tears anymore, they stream down my face silently. "Why are you crying?" he asks, his thumb wiping them away. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No," I whisper. "You said everything right. That's the problem." He looks confused but doesn't push it.
"I've also been thinking about therapy." That makes me look up at him. "What?"
"Therapy," he repeats. "I know I have problems. I know I'm obsessive, possessive, violent. I know I need help. I was thinking about finding someone, a professional, someone who can help me be better for you."
"You'd do that?" I ask, my voice breaking. "I'd do anything for you," he says simply. "If therapy makes you feel safer, if it makes you want to stay, then I'll do it. I'll do whatever it takes." I sob quietly against his chest, guilt eating me alive. "Hey," he says softly. "Talk to me. What's wrong? Why does everything I'm saying make you cry?"
"I'm just overwhelmed," I lie. "It's a lot."
"Good overwhelmed or bad overwhelmed?" he asks. "I don't know," I say honestly.
He's quiet for a moment, then says, "I've also been thinking about your family."
I tense. "What about them?"
"I hate them," he says bluntly. "I will never forgive them for what they did to me. Never."
"Ilay—"
"Let me finish," he says, his voice hardening. "I've been generous letting them live this long. But I've decided to give them one year. One year to relinquish all their territories to me, all their operations, everything. They can keep their money, live quietly somewhere, but they're done in this world." My heart sinks. "And if they don't?"
