He should leave now. Should return to his couch, maintain the distance he’s been keeping.
Instead, he reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away. His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and heavy. Anchoring.
“You’re safe here,” he says. “Whatever you dreamed, whatever you fear—it can’t reach you. I won’t let it.”
The certainty in his voice makes something crack in my chest.
“You’re what I should fear,” I whisper.
“I know.” His thumb strokes once over my shoulder. “You don’t. Not really. Your body knows the difference between danger and protection. Even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.”
He’s right. God, I hate that he’s right.
I don’t fear him. Should, but don’t. Instead, I fear this growing dependence. This softening toward the man who destroyed my life and rebuilt it in his image.
He releases my shoulder. “Sleep, Elena.”
I lie back down, staring at the ceiling, feeling the ghost of his touch on my shoulder.
The lie I’ve been telling myself—that this is just survival, just playing a role, just waiting for chance to escape—grows thinner every day.
Chapter Eighteen - Aleksandr
I’m reviewing accounts at nine in the morning when Elena appears in my office doorway.
She’s wearing the silk robe I’ve seen her in before, hair loose around her shoulders, bare feet silent on the hardwood. She shouldn’t be awake. Shouldn’t be here. The expression on her face—fury mixed with something raw and wounded—tells me this isn’t a casual visit.
“Elena.” I set down my pen. “It’s late. You should be—”
“Who was she?”
The question stops me cold. “What?”
“The woman. The one who used to share your bed.” She moves into the room, and I see her hands are shaking. “The maid mentioned her. Said I sleep in sheets that used to belong to someone else. That I’m not the first woman you’ve brought to that room.”
Ah. Fuck.
I lean back in my chair, calculating how to handle this. The truth is simple—there have been women. Temporary arrangements, physical needs met without emotional attachment. None of them mattered. None of them slept in my actual bed, in my private quarters. The maid was either misinformed or deliberately stirring trouble.
Elena’s face tells me explanations won’t help.
“That’s irrelevant,” I say carefully.
“Irrelevant?” Her voice rises. “You demand loyalty from me. Demand obedience, submission, my entire fucking life. You’ve got ghosts of other women lingering in your house, in your bed—”
“There are no ghosts—”
“Don’t.” She’s pacing now. “Don’t lie to me about this. I’ve seen how staff react, heard the whispers. You’ve had women before. Lots of them, probably. And now I’m just—what? The latest acquisition? The one you decided to keep permanently?”
I stand, irritation flaring. “You’re my wife. There’s a difference.”
“Is there? It feels like I’m just property that comes with legal paperwork.” She stops pacing, faces me directly. “You want me to accept this marriage. Want me to be loyal, devoted, yours. You’re a hypocrite. You demand everything while giving nothing.”
“I give you protection—”
“I don’t want your fucking protection!” The words explode out of her. “I want—” She stops, chest heaving. “I don’t know what I want, but it’s not this. It’s not being compared to women you’ve fucked before, wondering if every touch is something you did with them first, if I’m just—”
She’s jealous.
