He leaves before I can respond.
These moments accumulate. Small protections, tiny considerations, adjustments made for my comfort without acknowledgment or expectation of gratitude.
I tell myself it’s manipulation. Conditioning me to associate him with safety, to mistake control for care. Classic captor psychology, making the prisoner dependent on their jailer.
My body doesn’t care about psychology.
When he passes too close in corridors, heat flares under my skin. When his hand brushes mine reaching for the same door, electricity shoots up my arm. When he looks at me with those intense blue eyes, cataloging my reactions, something low in my belly tightens with awareness I desperately don’t want.
Resentment and desire tangle until I can’t separate them.
I hate him. Hate what he’s done, what he’s doing, what he represents.
My body is starting to forget that hatred matters.
***
Nights are the hardest.
I lie in his bed—our bed, technically, though I hate thinking of it like that—is surrounded by his scent, by evidence of his presence. His clothes in the closet, his books on the nightstand, the indent in the mattress on the side he doesn’t use.
The door to the sitting area remains closed but not locked. He’s just beyond it, sleeping on that too-small couch, fully dressed, close enough to reach me in seconds if something happened.
The safety of it seeps into my bones against my will.
I should feel threatened. Should lie awake planning escape or revenge or resistance.
Instead, I sleep better than I have in years. Deep, dreamless sleep that comes from knowing someone is standing guard. From trusting—God, I hate this—trusting that he’ll protect me from external threats even while being the biggest threat himself.
It’s a mindfuck of the highest order.
One night, I wake from a nightmare gasping. Nothing specific, just formless dread and suffocation. I sit up, heart hammering, trying to remember where I am.
The sitting room door opens immediately.
Aleksandr fills the doorway, silhouetted by dim light from behind him. “Elena?”
“I’m fine.” My voice shakes. “Just a dream.”
He doesn’t leave. Just stands there, watching, assessing threat level.
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat.
“I know what you said.” He moves into the room, crosses to the bed. Sits on the edge, careful not to touch me. “Breathe. You’re safe.”
“I know—”
“Then prove it. Slow your breathing. Count if you need to.”
I want to tell him to leave. Want to handle this alone without his witness to my weakness.
His presence is… steadying. The solid reality of him grounds me when panic tries to spiral.
I breathe. Count. Focus on the rise and fall of my chest until the fear recedes.
“Better?” he asks quietly.
“Yes.”
