Chapter Eleven - Eden #2
The first time is when he steps close to take a call, his voice dropping low and rough.
He’s speaking Russian—sharp consonants, clipped phrases—but the sound of it slides over my skin and settles somewhere low in my stomach.
I hate that. I hate that my body reacts to the tone of a man who pulled me off a sidewalk and into a van.
The second time is when he stands behind my chair, close enough that I feel warmth radiate off him. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t even lean down. He just stands there, watching whatever’s on my laptop screen, and every nerve in my back lights up like I’m plugged into something.
The third time is when he looks at me like I’m the only thing in the room.
Just me. The intensity of it pins me in place. It strips the air from my lungs. It terrifies me in a way bullets never have.
I hate myself for feeling any of it.
Every time it happens, I mentally slap myself back into line. This man orchestrates death. He commands fear. People disappear in the shadow of his family name. Clara vanished after she messed with his cousin. I saw him stand over a body in an alley like it was a minor inconvenience.
None of that leaves my mind. Not for a second.
My body doesn’t care what my mind remembers.
My pulse skips whenever he leans too close. My skin prickles when I catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, understated, threaded with smoke and something I can’t name. My breath hitches when he holds my gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
It’s infuriating. It’s humiliating. It’s not fair.
By late afternoon, I’m exhausted. Not from anything physical, just from the constant tug-of-war inside me—fear v.
logic, curiosity v. anger, attraction v.
self-preservation. I pace from the couch to the kitchen and back again, pretending I’m stretching my legs when really I’m just trying to burn off tension that won’t go anywhere.
He watches.
Always.
Sometimes he pretends to be occupied—scrolling his phone, checking a message, replying to something in Russian. His expression doesn’t change much. Calm. Focused. Serious. But his attention keeps circling back to me like a tether.
When I move rooms, he shifts too. Not obviously. If someone didn’t know better, they’d think it was coincidence. I know better now.
If I go to the sink for water, he suddenly has a reason to check the lock on the window near it.
If I sit at the table, he chooses the seat across from me, even if there are others more comfortable.
If I retreat to the far side of the room to get space, he stays near the center, angled just enough to keep me in sight.
At one point, I test it.
I walk from the living area to the bathroom and close the door, staring at my own reflection in the mirror. My face looks almost unfamiliar—eyes too wide, pupils blown, cheeks flushed. I splash cold water on my skin and try to slow my breathing.
When I open the door again, he’s there in the hallway. Not blocking me. Not looming. Just standing within reach, glancing away like he just happened to be passing by.
“You’ve been in there a while,” he says.
“I was washing my face,” I answer.
His gaze lingers on the dampness on my cheekbones, the drops clinging to my jaw. “You look better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than when I pulled you off the street.”
It’s such a casual admission that I almost choke on it.
I brush past him and go back to the living room. He lets me. I pretend his body didn’t feel like a wall of heat when my arm brushed his sleeve.
By evening, the light outside softens into that gray-blue that makes everything inside feel muted. One of his men knocks, gives a brief report in Russian, and leaves again. I don’t catch the words, but I see the shift in Simon’s posture—alert, then relaxed. Whatever the news is, he’s not worried.
He glances at me.
“What?” I ask, more sharply than I intend.
“You’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes,” he says.
I look down at my notebook. He’s right. The pen is hovering over the same half-finished line. My brain hasn’t been here for a while.
“I’m tired,” I say.
He studies me from where he stands near the doorway. “Then rest.”
“I don’t think I can sleep with you standing there.”
He huffs something like a laugh. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“That’s not the point.”
He tilts his head. “Then what is?”
“That you’re always watching.” The words come out harsher than planned. “Even when you’re pretending to do something else. You’re always… there.”
He doesn’t deny it.
The silence that follows feels heavy, like the air itself is considering my accusation.
He steps into the room fully, leaving his post by the door. “You’re under my protection right now.”
“You mean under your control,” I correct.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Protection and control go together in my world.”
“I didn’t ask for either.”
His expression shifts—just a flicker, but enough for me to see something almost like irritation. “You walked into my world,” he says quietly. “You don’t get to act like you’re not in it now.”
I stare at him, anger and fear mixing in my chest.
He moves closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing in front of me. Not touching. Not crowding as badly as before. But close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze.
My heart races again, traitorous and loud.
“Stop doing that,” I say.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“Like what, Eden?”
Like I’m the only thing in the room. Like he’s dismantling me without lifting a finger.
“Like you see more than you should.”
He doesn’t smile, but something knowing flickers in his eyes. “Maybe I do.”
The awareness of him follows me into every room. When I stand at the sink, I feel his gaze on my back. When I sit on the couch, I feel it on the side of my face. Even when he’s quiet, even when he’s turned away, I can sense him tracking every movement, every pause, every breath.
By the time night settles over the city, I realize a chilling truth.
Simon is always watching.
Not just like a man guarding an asset. Not just like a predator tracking a target. There’s something more focused, more personal in it. I feel it wrap around me like an invisible hand—never squeezing, but never letting go.
I should hate it. Part of me does. The other part… doesn’t know what to do with the way it makes me feel seen.