Chapter Twenty-Three - Eden
Simon’s protectiveness has always been sharp—something that presses against my ribs like a second heartbeat—but after the gala, it becomes something else entirely. Something heavier. Constant. It coils around me like invisible hands, guiding my movements even when he isn’t touching me.
I notice it first the morning after. His gaze finds me every time I shift in my chair. Every time I stand, his eyes track me with a heat that’s equal parts hunger and vigilance.
When I leave a room, I feel his stare follow me to the doorway and linger there until I return. When I walk down the hall, two guards I’ve never met fall into step behind me.
“Viktor goes with you.”
His voice has an edge I haven't heard in weeks—sharp, cold, dangerous. The guards snap to attention so quickly it makes me blink.
The intensity presses in on me, thick and electric. It should make me feel trapped. It should make me want to scream. But instead… it does the opposite.
Every clipped order, every irritated look he throws at his men, every time his hand sweeps across my lower back to guide me away from a window—each one hits me with a warmth that scares me more than the danger itself.
I shouldn’t crave this. I shouldn’t want the attention of a man who could tear the world apart with his bare hands. Except safety has a strange flavor: warm, dark, addictive.
I feel safer under his obsession than I ever did outside of it.
***
That afternoon, I slip outside for air. There’s a little enclosed courtyard. It’s nothing opulent, but it’s beautiful. The roses bloom along the back wall, and the fountain murmurs in the corner, serene and oblivious. I breathe in the cold bite of autumn.
For a moment, I pretend this life is normal. That I could wander where I want without guards trailing me or shadows lurking just out of sight.
The fantasy cracks when I hear footsteps on gravel.
I turn. A man approaches across the garden path, wearing a crisp brown delivery uniform and holding a small parcel. He looks perfectly ordinary—polite smile, badge clipped to his breast pocket—but something about the way he walks toward me makes my stomach twist.
“Miss Eden?” he asks pleasantly. “Package for Mr. Sharov. He usually signs himself, but I saw you here—”
My throat tightens.
His eyes don’t match the smile. They’re scanning. Measuring. Probing.
He angles his body slightly, blocking the narrow path back to the patio. Too close. Too casual. Too wrong.
“Actually,” I say, stepping back, “I’m not signing anything.”
His brows lift in an expression that might fool anyone else, but my pulse spikes.
“Oh, it’s just a small delivery.” He holds up the parcel. “No trouble at all, miss. Takes a second.”
Miss. Not Mrs. Sharov. Not Eden. It’s so impersonal it leaves my mouth dry.
His gaze dips to my belly before he looks back at my face. The cold rush that hits me is instant.
“I don’t know you,” I mutter, voice trembling despite my best effort to sound firm. “I’m going inside.”
Something shifts in his face—a flicker of disappointment, or irritation—but he masks it quickly. I don’t wait to decipher it.
I turn and move fast toward the house. My heart slams in my chest. Every instinct screams run run run.
The back doors come into view—tall glass, sunlight gleaming off the panels.
There’s Simon, standing by the doors with his arms folded. The moment our eyes meet, my fear breaks like a wave. Relief surges through me with such force my knees nearly buckle.
I reach the doors, stumbling inside just as Simon strides forward. He catches my arms before I can even speak. His grip is firm—too firm—but I don’t pull away. Not when the warmth of his body surrounds me. Not when his breath brushes my cheek.
“What happened?” His voice is low and deadly calm.
“There was a man…” My breath comes out in shaky bursts. “Delivery uniform. But he—he asked about you. He just—he looked at me like—like he knew something he shouldn’t have.”
Simon goes still. The kind of stillness that means something inside him has snapped.
His eyes flick past me to the garden. His men are already moving—Viktor, two others—racing across the patio with guns drawn, searching the grounds for a man who I now realize was never a delivery worker at all.
Simon steps fully in front of me, blocking my view, one hand sliding instinctively to my belly. His palm is hot and steady, a silent promise written in touch alone.
“You did exactly what you should have,” he murmurs. The softness doesn’t match the fury radiating off his body. His jaw clenches so hard I hear his teeth grind.
I rest a trembling hand against his chest, feeling the rapid drumbeat beneath my palm. The world narrows to just him—the hardness of his body, the warmth of his breath, the lethal restraint vibrating under his skin.
Simon’s hand cups my cheek, and his thumb sweeps over my lower lip. His forehead drops to mine, breath shaking with barely contained rage.
“I should have been there,” he says softly, but the softness makes the promise more terrifying. “He shouldn’t have been able to get within ten feet of you.”
“You can’t predict everything,” I whisper back.
His eyes flash. “No, but I need to do better.”
I should argue. I should tell him he’s being unreasonable, overbearing, obsessive.
All I feel is relief and a strange, dark comfort that his possessiveness isn’t a cage, but a shield.
His hands slide down my arms, wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I melt into the warmth of his chest, the solidness of him, the certainty that nothing in this world terrifies him except the thought of losing me.
He holds me like he’s anchoring himself.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a raw whisper against my ear. “I’ll find out who this man is, and I’ll carve out his eyes for daring to look at you.”
His hand moves over my stomach again, protective, reverent, possessive.
My heart twists—not with fear this time, but with something deeper, something frighteningly close to love.
I press my forehead to his chest, letting his arms surround me completely.
***
The sun sinks behind the city, bathing the garden in uneasy gold. My nerves are frayed, every sound outside making me startle.
After what happened earlier—after that strange delivery man’s probing questions—I can’t settle, can’t shake the sense that something is coming.
I keep replaying the encounter in my mind: the man’s badge, his eyes flicking to the house, the polite but persistent questions about Simon and our routines.
I told myself it was nothing, just paranoia.
But when I slipped inside and saw Simon waiting, arms folded, jaw set in a hard line, I knew better.
The warning was written all over his face, even before I opened my mouth.
Now it’s evening. Shadows collect in the corners of every room, thickening with the promise of danger. Simon’s orders have become sharper, more urgent. I hear him snapping at the guards, his voice cold enough to cut glass.
“No one steps near her. No one.” I see the way his gaze latches on to me whenever I move—a silent tether, invisible but iron-strong, keeping me in his orbit whether I want it or not.
Truthfully, I do want it. His obsession should scare me, should make me run, but it doesn’t. It makes me feel—safe, claimed, protected in a way I’ve never known before. I find myself seeking him out, watching for the reassurance of his presence, my pulse calming when I catch his eye.
Night falls with a heavy hush. I walk the hallway, restless, unable to sleep. The house feels both fortress and prison. I pass a window overlooking the garden and pause, drawn by movement in the shadows. Someone slips past the hedge. I squint, heart stuttering. Is it Anton? One of Simon’s men?
No. It’s the man from earlier—the “delivery” badge gone, a hard edge to his posture now, nothing polite or casual about him. He circles the back of the house, eyes darting.
For a breath, I freeze, mind racing through everything Simon drilled into me about what to do if danger comes. I fumble for my phone, my hands clumsy with fear.
Suddenly, the man is right there in front of me.
“Miss, wait—” he says, voice low and urgent, but the pretense is gone. His hand shoots out, reaching for my arm.
Panic erupts, white-hot. I try to scream, but the sound catches in my throat. Before I can even react—before I can fight or run or call for help—a blur of movement slices through the darkness. Simon.
He appears like a shadow torn from the night, moving faster than I’ve ever seen.
In a heartbeat he’s between us, grabbing the man’s wrist, wrenching it so hard I hear a wet pop.
The intruder cries out, buckling, but Simon is merciless.
He slams the man against the wall, forearm pressed to his throat.
“You made a mistake,” Simon growls, his voice thick with something primal and deadly. The man struggles, kicking out, but Simon is stone: unyielding, unstoppable.
“Simon!” My voice is shaky, but I can’t look away.
His eyes flick to mine, wild and dark. “Go inside, Eden.”
I nod, but I can’t move. My legs refuse to carry me. I press myself against the doorframe, hands shaking, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The man claws at Simon’s arm, but it’s useless. Simon holds him pinned, face inches away, radiating violence. “Who sent you?” he demands.
“Cortez—he said—” The man chokes, but Simon’s grip only tightens.
“Never again,” Simon snarls. “You go back to him missing a hand, or you don’t go back at all.”
The man whimpers. Simon shifts his grip, twisting the intruder’s arm until I hear another sickening crack. He releases him at last, and the man collapses, gasping, clutching his ruined arm.
“Tell Cortez,” Simon says coldly, “he’ll have to do better.”
He turns to me then, eyes blazing, chest heaving. The other man scrambles to his feet, limping away into the dark, and I finally find my voice. “Simon—”
He’s at my side in a blink, gathering me into his arms, holding me so tight I can barely breathe. I press against him, burying my face in his chest, shaking so badly I can’t stop. He doesn’t let go. One hand cradles the back of my head, the other wraps around my waist, anchoring me.
“Did he hurt you?” His voice is rough, urgent, desperate.
I shake my head, but tears start anyway, silent and sudden, everything catching up to me at once.
Simon’s hands are everywhere—brushing my hair back, checking my arms for bruises, holding me until the trembling slows. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. No one will ever touch you again.”
For a long time, we just stand there in the doorway, the night pressing in around us, the air thick with adrenaline and relief. His possessiveness is not just a claim; it’s a shield, lethal and absolute.
I realize, somewhere in the rush of my heartbeat, that I’m not afraid of him—not even a little. I’m afraid of the world without him.
He lifts me, carrying me inside as if I weigh nothing at all, and locks every door behind us.
“You stay with me,” he commands, voice hoarse. “From now on, you don’t go anywhere alone. Not for a second.”
I nod, letting him guide me through the apartment, back to our room. The tension in his body thrums against mine, barely leashed violence simmering beneath his skin.
He pulls me onto the bed, wraps his arms around me, and holds me until I stop shaking. I feel his heartbeat, wild and ragged, pounding through me like a second pulse.
“Don’t leave me,” I whisper, voice trembling.
“Never,” he vows, pressing his lips to my hair.
I believe him—because now I’ve seen what he’s capable of. His obsession isn’t just about having me. It’s about protecting me, destroying anyone who thinks they can take me away.
Tonight, I’m grateful for him.