The drive back to the estate feels surreal. Felix keeps me pulled against his side despite the awkwardness given the vehicle’s interior layout, one arm wrapped around my shoulders in a hold that’s probably too tight but feels necessary.
I’m shaking harder now that the immediate danger has passed, tremors running through my entire body in waves I can’t control. Delayed shock, some clinical part of my brain recognizes. Adrenaline crash meeting the psychological impact of hours spent wondering if I’d survive the night.
“Breathe,” Felix murmurs, his hand rubbing slow circles against my shoulder. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”
I try to match the rhythm he’s setting, but my lungs won’t cooperate fully. The air feels too thin, my chest too tight, panic spiraling despite knowing intellectually that the threat has passed.
Felix shifts his grip, pulling me onto his lap entirely in a way that must look ridiculous to anyone else in the vehicle but provides the pressure and closeness my nervous system is demanding. I curl against him, face buried in his neck, and finally let the tears come.
They’re silent, hot, streaming down my face and soaking into his shirt. I cry for the terror I held back while zip-tied to that chair.
For the hours wondering if Felix would come or if strategic calculation would keep him away.
For the relief that’s almost painful in its intensity. For the man holding me who started a war because someone took what he’s decided belongs to him.
Felix doesn’t tell me to stop crying or reassure me with empty platitudes. He just holds me tighter, one hand stroking my hair carefully around the injury, and lets me fall apart against him.
By the time we reach the estate, the tears have slowed to occasional hiccups and my breathing has steadied into something approaching normal. I’m exhausted in ways that go beyond physical fatigue—the kind of bone-deep weariness that comes from surviving something that should have destroyed me.
Felix carries me inside despite my weak protest that I can walk. The household staff maintains professional distance, offering assistance he declines with quiet authority. A doctor waits near the entrance, but Felix waves him off until we’re upstairs.
The bedroom feels impossibly safe after the warehouse—familiar space with soft lighting and comfortable furniture and the absence of zip ties and concrete floors.
Felix sets me on the bed gently and helps remove the ruined dress with movements that are careful and clinical, replacing it with one of his own shirts that hangs past my knees.
The doctor performs an examination with efficient thoroughness, confirming the injuries are superficial and recommending rest.
Felix hovers nearby, watching every movement with an intensity that suggests he’s memorizing the assessment for later verification.
When the doctor finally leaves, we’re alone in the quiet bedroom with dawn breaking outside the windows.
Felix settles beside me on the bed, still fully clothed in tactical gear that’s incongruous with the domestic setting. He looks exhausted despite the controlled exterior—strain visible in the lines around his eyes, the tension that won’t quite leave his shoulders.
“You should sleep,” he says, reaching up to brush hair back from my face with a gentleness that contradicts the violence he committed hours ago.
“So should you.” I catch his hand, holding it against my cheek. “We both know neither of us will.”
His mouth curves slightly, something that might be amusement or resignation. “Probably not.”
We lie there in silence for several minutes, neither sleeping nor speaking, just existing in the same space with the kind of proximity that feels necessary after being forcibly separated.
Eventually I shift closer, pressing against him despite the tactical vest creating uncomfortable barriers. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not calculating whether rescuing me was worth the cost, and for choosing me over strategic restraint.”
Felix’s arm tightens around me. “There was no choice to make. You’re mine, Diana. That means I come for you regardless of cost.”
The possessiveness should bother me. Should remind me that Felix views relationships through frameworks of ownership and control.
Lying here against him, hearing the steady rhythm of his breathing, I can’t separate possession from protection in ways that make the distinction meaningful.
“I’m not staying because I have nowhere else to go,” I tell him, needing him to understand. “I could leave. Could disappear, take my chances with witness protection or relocation to somewhere Lorenzo can’t easily reach. It wouldn’t be safe, but it would be possible.”
Felix goes very still. “Then why stay?”
“I choose you.” The words feel monumental despite their simplicity. “Not the protection or the resources or the strategic advantage of being your wife. You. The man who picks wildflowers and starts wars and holds me like you’re terrified I’ll disappear.”
