Chapter Twelve - Simon
I watch her from the moment she wakes.
She stirs on the couch, disoriented for half a second before memory slams back into place. I can see the exact moment it hits; her eyes widen, then narrow, her throat works around a swallow, and she doesn’t scream. She sits up slowly instead, scanning the room, cataloging exits, people, objects.
She’s afraid, but she’s thinking through the fear. That’s rare.
My men are posted at the door, silent and motionless. I sit in the chair across from her, coffee in hand, already dressed. From her point of view, I’ve probably been here for hours.
She spots me, and her shoulders tighten, but she doesn’t look away.
“Morning,” I say.
Her voice is low, rough with sleep. “You always watch people wake up?”
“Only you.”
“Creepy.”
Her brows pull together, then smooth out as she lets out a slow breath. She doesn’t ask what that means. She knows.
She pushes the blanket off and stands. Her bare feet touch the floor cautiously, like she half expects it to give way. She glances at the window, the door, my men, then me. She’s measuring everything. She’s trying to understand the situation, the threat, the limits.
I find myself admiring it more than I should.
Most people in her position cry, beg, or break.
She does none of those things. She’s cautious, yes, but her mind never stops working.
I can see it in the way her gaze lingers on small details—my watch, my posture, the way my men respond when I shift in my chair. She’s not just scared. She’s studying.
“Bathroom?” she asks.
I gesture. “Second door on the left. I’m not going to stop you.”
She nods slowly, like she doesn’t quite trust that, then walks past me. Her chin is slightly lifted. There’s dignity in her even now, wrapped around her like a thin, stubborn layer of armor.
My eyes follow her until she disappears down the hall.
Viktor steps closer to my side. He keeps his voice low. “The crew on East 19th reported more movement. Cortez’s men.”
“How close?” I ask, still watching the empty doorway.
“Close enough they saw our car outside the girl’s building last night.”
I set my cup down.
“And?”
Viktor hesitates. That alone pisses me off. “One of the younger ones got mouthy. Joked about you ‘snatching a girl’ and going soft.”
The temperature in the room drops.
I stare at him until he looks away.
“What happened to him?” I ask.
“Lukyan broke his nose,” Viktor says. “Told him to shut up and learn when to keep his ideas to himself.”
For a moment, the rage sits cold and sharp, burning in my chest with a clarity I don’t like. The idea of anyone outside this room discussing her, commenting on her fear, mocking her vulnerability—
Unacceptable.
I stand.
“Double the rotation outside,” I say. “No one mentions her. If I hear another joke, I’ll carve out their tongue.”
Viktor nods, not surprised, but more cautious than usual. My men exchange brief glances, sensing the shift, but they’re smart enough to look away quickly. They follow orders. They don’t question why the security net doesn’t just tighten around the Bratva, but around one girl.
The truth is simple.
I should care about the territory first. The Bratva. The docks, the shipments, the cartel. But my first order of the day is reinforced security around her building, her route, her door. I don’t frame it that way out loud. I bury it under operational necessity.
It’s a lie everyone accepts.
She returns a few minutes later, hair damp from splashing water on her face, eyes more awake but still lined with exhaustion. She pauses when she sees the way my men have subtly shifted. One now stands closer to the stairs. Another outside the window line of sight.
She notices. Of course she does.
“What changed?” she asks.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I say.
Her gaze sharpens. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She glares at me, but doesn’t push further. She moves to the kitchen instead, searching for a glass. I watch her open drawers and cabinets until she finds one. She doesn’t ask permission. I like that more than I should.
The morning passes slowly. Reports come in. Men come and go. Viktor updates me on shipments.
Ardaleon texts something about Rafael’s crew sniffing around the wrong block again. Through it all, I feel Eden’s presence like a constant thread tugging at my attention.
She sits at the table sometimes, pretending to read, and I catch her staring over the pages more often than not. Other times, she stands near the window, careful to stay out of clear sight from the street, watching the world she no longer belongs fully to.
She’s trying to understand the new shape of her life.
I’m trying to understand why I care.
Her innocence bothers me. It has edges I don’t know how to push against. It makes my world look sharper and uglier in comparison. But her sharpness keeps me alert, keeps me interested. She refuses to crumble, and that… pulls at something in me I thought was long dead.
By midafternoon, my mood is already frayed from Cortez’s movements, my men’s stupidity, and my own relentless awareness of the girl sitting ten feet away. She taps her pen against the table, chewing the inside of her cheek as she writes.
I wonder if she’s writing about me again.
I wonder what she sees.
The knock at the door is measured—three taps, a pause, two more. One of mine. Lukyan steps in, scent of smoke and cold air following him.
“We dealt with the idiot who made that joke,” he says quietly, in Russian. “He won’t use his mouth for anything but apologies for a while.”
“Good,” I reply in the same language.
Eden looks up, brows pinching slightly. She doesn’t understand the words, but she recognizes the tone. She watches us carefully, eyes moving between us like she’s trying to pick up context through body language alone.
“Anything else?” I ask.
“Cortez’s car drove past twice,” Lukyan says. “We sent them a friendly reminder they’ve been caught.”
“What kind of reminder?”
“The kind that makes them rethink their life choices.”
He smirks, but the humor doesn’t touch his eyes. I nod once, and he leaves as quietly as he came.
Eden sets her pen down. “I can’t be here if there’s a war about to break out,” she says.
“You already are here,” I answer. “You’re safer here than anywhere else.”
She laughs once, a small, disbelieving sound. “Safe. Right.”
I don’t bother arguing. Safe is relative in my world, and she’s standing in the most protected spot I can offer.
The distant crack of something outside cuts through the apartment.
It’s sharp and sudden—a gunshot if you know the sound, a backfiring engine if you don’t. Eden flinches so hard her chair scrapes the floor. Her eyes widen. One hand flies to her chest like she’s bracing herself from the inside.
I don’t think. I move.
In two strides I’m in front of her, body slotting between her and the window, the hallway, the door. My hand finds her arm and tugs her behind me without hesitation, guiding her into the space between me and the wall.
She stumbles into my back and freezes.
The contact hits me like another kind of impact—a rush of heat, instinctive and visceral, rippling under my skin as she presses close and stills against me.
She doesn’t know what she does to me when she clings like that.
Her body is pressed against my back, fingers curling unconsciously in the fabric of my shirt as the echo of the noise outside dies away. I can feel her breathing—shallow, quick, shaking—as she tries to decide if she’s still in immediate danger.
I listen.
One muffled shout. A car door slam. Tires squeal, then fade. Nothing that concerns us. Not right now.
I don’t move away from her.
“Just a car,” I say quietly, and I feel a flicker of relief. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
She doesn’t let go.
It’s instinct, I know that—fight, flight, latch on to the nearest solid thing. It isn’t trust. It isn’t choice. The effect is the same, and my body reacts before my mind catches up. Heat spikes under my skin, sharp and wrong and addictive.
Slowly, she realizes how close she is. Her grip loosens. She steps back, putting space between us, staring at the floor like she’s embarrassed to exist.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “I just—thought it was…”
“A gunshot,” I finish.
She nods.
“It wasn’t.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t be next time.”
I file that away. She isn’t wrong.
When she walks back to the table, I stay where I am for a moment, feeling the ghost of her weight against my back. It shouldn’t matter. It does. It confirms something I’ve been circling around since the moment she hid behind that dumpster.
Fear isn’t enough to keep her away from me. I want more than her fear.
The realization settles slowly, heavily, like a decision I’ve already made and am only now acknowledging.
If I let things continue as they are, she’ll spend every second waiting for me to kill her.
She’ll bolt the first chance she gets. She’ll run the second she finds a crack in the walls of my control.
She’ll never look at me as anything but the man who kidnapped her and dragged her into a world she didn’t ask for.
That won’t work for me.
I need more than compliance. I need her attention. Her honesty. Her focus. Her attachment.
I need her to see me as inevitable.
So I start planning.
Small comforts. Things she can’t easily reject, things she’ll tell herself she isn’t grateful for while her body disagrees.
Food delivered that she actually likes—no generic takeout, nothing greasy and forgettable.
Real meals. Tea instead of coffee when I notice she drinks more of it.
An extra blanket folded on the back of the couch.
A charger for her laptop, placed where she’ll find it without having to ask.
Controlled proximity. Not just looming over her like a threat, but sitting close enough she gets used to my presence. Not touching, but always there. Always within reach. Always the nearest solid thing when the world outside makes her flinch.