Chapter Nineteen - Eden
Something’s changing inside me, and I can’t hide it, not from myself, and certainly not from Simon.
At first, it’s the little things that tip me off.
The way my body doesn’t tense the moment he enters a room.
The way I notice his presence before I hear his voice, some secret sense alerting me to the change in the air, the scent of his cologne, the hush that settles over the apartment as soon as he crosses the threshold.
I still flinch sometimes, still feel that flicker of anxiety when his phone rings and he slips into Russian, voice dropping to a low, cold threat. But fear is no longer the loudest thing inside me.
Instead, there’s a warmth—quiet, persistent, sneaking up on me when I least expect it. It’s in the way Simon presses a glass of water into my hands when I wake up nauseous, or the way he slides his palm along my lower back in passing, steadying me before I can stumble.
He doesn’t hover, exactly, but he’s always there: a solid shape in my periphery, tense and alert, as if he’s fighting battles I can’t see.
At first, it felt like surveillance. Now it feels like safety.
I don’t want to need him, not like this. My pride resists, clinging to old habits of independence, to a belief that love is weakness and safety is something you carve out for yourself. But my heart reacts before my mind can reason with it.
I sleep better when he’s near. I breathe easier when I know he’s awake, just outside my door, keeping the monsters of his world—and my own imagination—at bay.
With this new warmth comes a kind of curiosity, a low thrum of boldness. I start to test him, just to see what happens. It’s never malicious. More like I want to see where his edges are, where I fit in the cage he’s built around both of us.
I’ll say something offhand at breakfast—a teasing remark about his overprotectiveness, or a sly comment about how he never lets anyone else make his coffee—and watch the way his jaw tightens, the flicker of amusement in his eyes before he schools his face back to neutrality.
Sometimes, when I pass him something—my phone, a pen, a mug of tea—I let my fingers brush against his wrist, linger a fraction longer than necessary.
The reaction is always immediate: a slow, deliberate inhale, as if he’s measuring out patience by the breath.
His eyes will find mine and hold, sharp and possessive, and for a second I can feel everything he’s holding back.
It makes my pulse skip, sends heat curling low in my stomach.
It’s addictive, this game. I’m not trying to manipulate him, not really.
I just like seeing the effect I have on him—the way the man who commands fear from everyone else can be undone by a glance, a touch, a word whispered at the right moment.
I start to catch myself looking at him too long, letting my gaze slide over the broad set of his shoulders, the scars I’ve come to know by heart, the softness that only comes out when he thinks I’m not watching.
He notices, of course. Simon notices everything. I think he likes it, even if he pretends otherwise. I see it in the way he’ll pause in the middle of a phone call, eyes fixed on me as I move through the room, tracking every step.
Or how he’ll stand behind me in the kitchen, too close, his breath warm against my neck, his hands finding reasons to touch my hips, my waist, my arms. It’s as if he’s reminding me—and maybe himself—that I belong to him, but lately, I wonder if the power doesn’t flow both ways.
I start to test my limits in other ways too.
I let myself lean into his touch when I’m tired, let him guide me to the couch when my legs feel unsteady.
I don’t argue when he insists I eat, or when he tucks me into bed after a long day, even if it means ceding some control.
It feels less like giving in and more like…
being cared for. The distinction is subtle, but it matters. It makes all the difference.
One evening, as we sit in his office, me curled on the velvet couch with my book and him working through stacks of paper, I let the silence stretch.
I set my book down and watch him for a while—his concentration, the furrow between his brows, the way his lips move as he reads something only he can understand.
He glances up, catches me staring, and for a moment the rest of the world disappears. His gaze pins me, hot and intent, and something unspoken crackles between us.
“What?” he asks quietly, voice rougher than usual.
“Nothing,” I say, smiling. “Just… thinking.”
He cocks his head, suspicious but amused. “About?”
I could say anything. I could tease him again, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “About you.”
For a heartbeat, he’s thrown. The mask slips. He swallows, and I watch the struggle play out on his face—desire, caution, vulnerability.
I realize, suddenly, how fragile this is. How much it means for him to let me in at all.
“I hope it’s good,” he says, his mouth curving into the faintest smile.
I nod. “It is.”
The air between us feels charged, trembling with everything neither of us will say. He goes back to his papers, but I see the way his hand shakes, the way he keeps glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
Later, when he walks me to my room, he pauses at the door, lingering in the hallway’s half dark. I reach out, catching his hand, letting my thumb trace over the scar on his knuckle. “Stay with me?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just steps inside and closes the door behind him.
***
The apartment’s rhythm is changing—sharper, more alive with tension as my body grows heavier, slower, and Simon’s world closes in around us.
I feel the difference everywhere: in the guards’ sidelong glances, the way the housekeeper hurries out of a room when Simon enters, and especially in the way he tracks every moment I spend with anyone but him.
I’m padding down the main hallway one afternoon, a glass of water in hand, the sunlight painting gold rectangles across the marble floor.
One of Simon’s men, Anton—I’ve heard Simon call him that—waits at the end of the hall, radio clipped to his vest. He nods as I approach, polite but distant.
“Miss Eden,” he says, a trace of concern in his voice. “Do you need anything? More water, maybe?”
Before I can answer, Simon’s presence fills the space behind me. I don’t hear him coming—I never do—but suddenly he’s there, stepping between us with a coldness that chills the hallway. His stare pins Anton where he stands.
“You want to help her, you come to me first,” Simon says quietly, but his voice carries all the threat of a gun cocking in a dark room. “Understand?”
Anton’s eyes dart to mine, then to Simon. He nods quickly, voice barely a murmur. “Yes, sir.”
Simon doesn’t say another word. He stands between us until Anton backs away, disappearing into the stairwell.
Only when we’re alone does Simon let out a breath and turn to me, his expression shifting—less cruel, more concerned.
I know I shouldn’t like it, shouldn’t feel the heat that pools in my chest at the ferocity of his possessiveness.
Something about the way he guards me—not just from the world, but from his own people—makes me feel claimed, anchored in a way I’ve never been before.
He takes the glass from my hand and gives me a once-over. “You need to sit down,” he says, guiding me gently back toward the living room.
His hand is firm at my elbow, never rough but impossible to escape. I roll my eyes and follow, hiding my smile behind the rim of my water.
Pregnancy is its own battle. Some days, I want nothing but to curl up alone and shut out the world, Simon included.
Other days, I crave him so intensely it leaves me breathless, embarrassed by how much I want his attention, his comfort, his hands on my skin.
The two urges war inside me, making me restless and raw.
The craving for closeness wins tonight.
***
Later, the house is quiet, shadows thick in the corners. I wander out into the hall, needing air, maybe just an excuse to find him. My stomach twists with nerves and hunger, or maybe just the baby reminding me who’s in charge now.
Suddenly, a wave of nausea crashes over me. I stop, clutching the wall, vision tunneling. My knees threaten to buckle, the hallway flickering gray and white.
Before I can slide to the floor, Simon is there, solid arms catching me, his hand splaying firm and wide across my back.
“Hey,” he says, voice urgent but soft. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”
I do as he says, closing my eyes, letting his steadying presence anchor me. He smells like aftershave and clean linen, the warmth of his body radiating through my clothes. His hand moves in slow, careful circles, grounding me, not letting go even after the nausea ebbs.
We stand like that for a long minute, just the two of us in a strip of moonlight. It’s the most intimate moment we’ve ever shared—quieter, deeper than sex, a brush with vulnerability that leaves me trembling.
When I finally open my eyes, Simon is watching me with an expression I’ve never seen before—open, raw, almost gentle. The monster the world fears has vanished. In his place is a man terrified of losing me.
“Come on,” he says, voice rough, “let’s get you to bed.”
He guides me back to the bedroom, his arm tight around my waist, his thumb brushing little circles at my side. In the quiet, I let myself lean on him, grateful and a little undone.
We settle under the covers, the silence stretching easy between us. I curl into him, my head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers stroke slow circles along my bare shoulder—absentminded, soothing. I feel his breath against my hair, steady and slow, the rise and fall of his chest a lullaby.
I could fight the warmth that’s growing inside me. I could tell myself it’s just hormones, just gratitude for safety. But lying here, in the hush of his room, I don’t want to push the feeling away anymore.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “For… all of this. Even the overprotective part.”
He huffs a soft laugh, and I feel it vibrate through his chest. “You get used to it.”
I lift my head, catching the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. “You don’t have to be so angry at everyone else. I’m not going anywhere.”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “You’re everything to me now. I can’t—” He cuts himself off, swallowing whatever confession was about to surface.
I lay my hand over his heart, feeling it race beneath my palm. “I know,” I say, softer than I mean to.
The tension between us thickens, but it’s different tonight—less about fear, more about trust, about letting go.
I let myself press closer, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble that roughens his skin.
He closes his eyes, surrendering to my touch, his control slipping in the gentlest way.
“I’m falling for you,” I admit, the truth spilling out before I can stop it.
His eyes snap open, searching mine with a hunger that’s almost painful. “Good,” he murmurs, pulling me tight against him. “I knew you would.”
That night, I let the feeling stay. I let the warmth settle in my chest, crowding out the fear, the doubt, the memories of all the times I thought I’d never be safe again.
I fall asleep with Simon’s arms around me, his fingers drawing endless circles on my skin, and for the first time in a long while, I don’t dream of escape.