Chapter Twenty-One - Eden
Rafael Cortez. The name leaves a foul taste in my mouth.
We’re in Simon’s office again—my safe place, his war room—and the atmosphere shifts the second he closes the door behind us. He doesn’t sit at his desk. He paces once, twice, jaw tight, hand sliding through his hair in a gesture he only uses when something is truly wrong.
“Rafael is moving closer,” he says.
Just like that. No preamble. No softening. The air chills.
I straighten on the couch, fingers knotting together. “What does that mean?”
His eyes flick to me, sharp, assessing, protective. He comes closer and sits on the low table directly across from me, knees almost brushing mine. It’s an intimacy fueled not by desire this time, but by the gravity of what he’s about to say.
“It means the man whose operation you walked into that night,” he says quietly, “isn’t finished.”
A shiver runs down my spine. The warehouse. The shot. The way Simon turned his head, sensing me before he ever saw me. “He was Rafael’s man?”
“Someone Rafael considered a brother.” His voice goes low. Dangerous. “The cover-up wasn’t a coincidence. It was a warning. And now Cortez is making moves he doesn’t make unless he feels threatened.”
“So he’s coming… here?” My voice cracks, despite my best attempt to keep steady.
Simon doesn’t sugarcoat it. “He wants leverage. Something worth more than blood.”
His eyes lock on to mine with a meaning so clear it steals my breath.
Me.
I wrap my arms around myself, a protective instinct I didn’t know I even had. Simon sees the movement instantly. He stands and kneels in front of me without hesitation, hands braced on either side of my thighs, his expression fierce and unyielding.
“You will not be touched,” he says, voice like steel. “Not by Rafael, not by anyone. I’ll burn the city before I let them near you.”
There’s no bravado there. No exaggeration. Just truth, and the weight of a man who has already planned three different ways to make good on that promise.
I swallow hard. “Tell me everything.”
His eyes soften—just a fraction.
He tells me about the turf war that began months ago.
About Rafael’s attempt to move product through New York without permission.
About the deal that went wrong. About the murder I witnessed—how it ties into a much larger power struggle.
He tells me about plans and betrayals, about the men who defected to Cortez, about the shipments intercepted, about the threats left unspoken but understood.
The more he says, the more I understand the depth of the world I’ve been pulled into. A world full of shadows and codes and a kind of violence that feels ancient and inevitable.
When he finishes, my hands are trembling.
Not from fear alone, but because through all of it—every detail, every threat—Simon’s gaze never leaves me. Not for a second. As if watching me is what keeps him anchored, what keeps him from sliding fully into the dark instincts that rule everything else in his life.
“You shouldn’t have to carry this,” I whisper.
“You shouldn’t have to worry about it either,” he counters. “But you do. So I’ll tell you. I’ll never keep you blind.”
That hits me deeper than anything else he’s said. And it frightens me, because Simon Sharov does not share his world. Not with anyone.
He chose to share it with me.
A knock interrupts us. It’s Viktor, tense and pale, reporting another sighting of Rafael’s men near one of their clubs. Simon stands, his entire body shifting into leader mode instantly—shoulders squared, voice quiet but lethal.
“Double-check security,” he says. “No one moves alone tonight.”
Viktor nods and leaves. The door clicks shut.
Silence settles between us, heavier than before.
Simon stands with his back to me, breathing slow, controlled, but the tension in him is coiled tight enough to snap.
I rise from the couch and walk toward him, my bare feet silent against the hardwood.
I stop behind him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Simon,” I whisper.
He turns.
The moment our eyes meet, the weight of the world around us fractures. All the threats, all the danger, everything that’s pressing in from outside, none of it matters in this pocket of silence.
He lifts a hand and cups my face. His palm is warm, calloused, steady despite the storm in him. I lean into it instinctively, and he exhales a breath that sounds like he’s been holding it for hours.
“You’re the only thing that makes any of this bearable,” he says softly.
My chest tightens painfully. “You don’t have to protect me alone.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, slow and reverent. “I do, and I will.”
He leans down, kisses me with a restraint that trembles at the edges. Slow. Deep. A kiss that makes my knees weaken and my breath catch. His other hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me there like I’m the only thing keeping him from flying apart.
The kiss deepens—not hungry, but intense, full of everything he can’t say out loud. A promise. A vow. A plea.
When our mouths part, our foreheads stay pressed together. His breath brushes my lips.
“There is nothing in this world I won’t do to keep you safe,” he murmurs. “Nothing.”
“I know,” I whisper, my hands gripping the front of his shirt. “I believe you.”
His eyes darken not with danger, but with something far more fragile. He lifts me easily, setting me on the desk behind him, stepping between my knees. His hands rest on my hips, not pulling, just holding. Anchoring. His touch is tender, almost reverent.
I cup his face, forcing him to look directly at me. “You don't carry this alone,” I repeat.
His jaw flexes, the only sign of the emotions he keeps locked away. Then he nods just once, small but real.
I kiss him again—slow, lingering, unhurried. This time, he lets the world go completely. His hands slide up my back, gripping me with a need that’s fierce but controlled. I melt into him, letting all the fear and tension drain out of me.
For a moment, we’re not prey or predator. Not hunted or hiding.
Just us.
When the kiss breaks, he rests his forehead on my shoulder, arms wrapped around me as if shielding me from everything outside these walls.
***
The world is loud, dangerous, and spinning outside the walls of this room, but inside, it’s just us—Simon, his touch, the low hum of my breath caught somewhere between want and wonder.
He’s impossibly gentle with me these days. Pregnancy seems to have sharpened every nerve, every pleasure, every fear. My body aches and changes in ways I can’t predict, and there are moments I catch Simon staring at me with a hunger that terrifies and thrills me at once.
Sometimes it feels like he’s the only thing holding me together.
Tonight, the apartment is quiet: no meetings, no distant voices, no guards whispering in the hall. He locks the door behind us, shuts out the rest of the world, and turns to me. His eyes burn with something I recognize now—not just desire, but devotion.
He comes to me slowly, tracing his fingertips down my bare arm.
The contact is so light I almost shiver.
His thumb lingers at my elbow, and he watches the way I breathe, as if he’s waiting for permission to go further.
I don’t hesitate. I lean into him, letting my lips find his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin, the stubble rough against my mouth.
“Careful,” he murmurs, but his hands settle on my hips, guiding me backward until the backs of my knees find the bed.
My heart beats faster. Everything feels sharper—his scent, the weight of his hands, the heat rolling off his body. I sink onto the mattress and he follows, hovering above, his gaze tracking every flicker of emotion across my face.
He brushes my hair back, studies me as if he can see through to the thoughts swirling in my chest.
“You trust me?” His voice is low, almost hoarse.
I nod. “Yes.”
His jaw tightens, and something fierce flickers in his eyes. He kisses me slowly—lips parting mine with an intensity that leaves me dizzy.
There’s nothing rushed about it. He takes his time, learning the shape of my mouth, tasting me as if there’s nothing else in the world worth having. Every brush of his tongue, every gentle tug of my lower lip makes heat spiral through me.
His hands slide down, cupping my face, then my shoulders, tracing the curve of my waist where my body is softening and rounding.
Pregnancy has made me tender, vulnerable, but Simon only touches me with reverence. His palms are broad, warm, grounding me as he pulls my shirt over my head and unfastens my bra, baring me to the cool air.
Goose bumps ripple across my skin. His lips find my throat, lingering at the hollow, and his breath fans hot across my collarbone. I arch beneath him, craving more, needing the weight and certainty of his body pressed against mine.
He breaks the kiss only to murmur, “Tell me if it’s too much.”
It never is—not with him. I tangle my fingers in his hair, dragging him closer, until his mouth trails lower, teeth scraping gently along the swell of my breast, his tongue swirling over a nipple.
I gasp, thighs tightening around his hips, the sensation magnified by my own hypersensitive skin.
He shifts, one hand sliding down to my belly. He kneels at the edge of the bed, and for a moment, he just looks—eyes wide, almost in awe. He presses a kiss to my stomach, lips soft, hands splayed wide to cradle my sides.
I feel exposed, cherished, almost sacred. He checks my breathing with a thumb grazing the underside of my ribs, steadying me, never letting me drift too far from him.
A shudder goes through me. “Simon…”
His cock pulses against the inside of my thigh. I realize with a little thrill that he likes the beginning of my baby bump.
He glances up, and there’s a gentleness there that unravels me. He kisses every inch of my stomach, his stubble scraping just enough to make me laugh and then moan as his mouth finds the line of my hip.
His hand moves lower, slipping beneath my panties, teasing me until I’m slick and trembling, hips arching into his touch.
He is always watching—my face, my breath, the flush crawling down my chest. He waits until I beg, until my body arches up and my voice cracks with need.
When he finally pushes inside me, it’s slow, careful. He fills me completely, pausing to check my face for any hint of pain. There is none—only pleasure, only the overwhelming rightness of being with him like this.
I cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and his control slips. His thrusts grow deeper, more desperate, but never careless. He braces my hips, murmurs praise and possessive promises into my ear—how beautiful I am, how I belong to him, how he’ll always keep me safe.
The intensity isn’t just desire—it’s a bond that leaves me breathless, a certainty that I am seen, known, and entirely claimed.
Every thrust sends sparks racing up my spine. When his hand moves between us, his thumb circling my clit, I break for him—clenching, shaking, crying out his name as pleasure crashes over me.
He follows, burying his face in my neck, groaning as he spills inside me, one hand pressed flat against my belly as if to shield me and our child from the world.
After, we lie tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his arm a heavy, protective weight around my back.
I listen to his heart steadying, his breath deepening as he runs his fingers in lazy circles over my shoulder.
The air is warm and thick with everything we can’t put into words, but we don’t need to.
I feel the truth in every lingering touch, every sigh, every gentle kiss pressed to my temple.