CHAPTER 13| The Echo of the Pages
The window seat has become my sanctuary.
It's massive—easily six feet wide and deep enough that I can curl up completely with pillows supporting my back and blankets tucked around my legs.
The floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city from twenty-three stories up, and during the day, sunlight pours in and makes the whole space feel warm and safe.
Safe. That's the word that keeps coming back to me. I feel safe here in a way I've never felt safe anywhere.
Not in foster homes where I was always temporary, always waiting for the next move.
Not at St. Catherine's where safety was an illusion that shattered violently.
Not even in my dorm room at Ardencrest, where I spent every night listening for footsteps in the hallway and checking the lock obsessively.
But here, in Nikolai's penthouse, wrapped in expensive blankets with a stack of new books beside me, I feel like nothing can reach me.
And that should terrify me more than it does.
It's been four days since he burned down St. Catherine's. Four days since I woke up to news reports about bodies in the ashes and realized that the boy I'm living with is capable of systematic murder without losing a single night of sleep.
Four days since I touched his shoulder and chose him anyway.
The books arrived two days ago. A delivery that Nikolai brought in personally, setting a beautiful wooden box on the coffee table with that small, almost-genuine smile he reserves for moments when he's particularly pleased with himself.
"I saw these in a rare bookstore," he'd said, his lips forming the words carefully so I could read them. "I thought my quiet girl needed new worlds to escape into."
Inside were a dozen hardcover books. Romance novels, all of them. My favorite genre. Stories about damaged men and the women who see past their trauma. Stories about obsessive love and possessive devotion and heroes who would burn the world down to protect their heroines.
Stories that feel increasingly, disturbingly familiar.
I'm currently on my third book from the collection—a story about a French businessman named Alexandre who becomes obsessed with a young woman he meets at a charity gala.
The prose is beautiful, the tension is perfect, and the love scenes are.
.. intense. Explicit. The kind of thing that makes my face heat even though I'm alone.
But it's not the explicitness that's bothering me.
It's the details.
Alexandre has "eyes like frozen emeralds—beautiful but empty, like looking into ornamental glass.
" He speaks French to calm the heroine when she's anxious.
He's wealthy beyond measure and uses that wealth to control every aspect of her environment "for her own protection.
" He demands absolute control in their relationship but respects the boundaries she explicitly states.
He's cold to everyone except her. Possessive to the point of violence toward anyone who threatens her. Patient and methodical in his pursuit until she finally surrenders to what they both want.
I set the book down on my lap, my heart pounding uncomfortably.
This is the third book with a hero who has these exact characteristics. The third one where the male lead could be describing Nikolai with only minor changes to the setting and profession.
The first one—about a French art dealer named Bastien—I thought was just coincidence. Lots of romance novels have possessive heroes. Lots of them feature wealthy men who are cold to the world but soft for their love interest.
The second one—about a French security consultant named étienne—made me pause. But I told myself I was overthinking it. That I was projecting my growing... feelings... onto the characters I was reading about.
Because I am developing feelings for Nikolai. I can't deny that anymore.
The way my heart rate picks up when I hear him moving around the penthouse. The way I sleep better with his presence in the room than I ever did alone. The way I found myself disappointed the last two mornings when I woke up alone because he'd already gotten up and was working in his study.
The way I crawled across the bed three nights ago and buried myself against his chest, seeking his proximity in my sleep like my subconscious knows something my conscious mind is still struggling to accept.
But now, reading this third book with its eerily familiar hero, I can't shake the feeling that something is off.
I flip back through the pages I've already read, scanning the descriptions:
"Alexandre spoke softly in French, the words washing over her like warm water even though she didn't understand them. The sound of his voice made her feel safe in a way nothing else ever had."
"He never touched her without permission, but his presence was a constant weight—protective and possessive and absolutely certain that she belonged to him."
"His eyes were empty of warmth for everyone but her. She should have found that terrifying. Instead, it made her feel precious. Chosen. Like she was the only thing in the world capable of reaching the human underneath the monster."
My hands are shaking slightly as I close the book and set it aside.
This is just me being paranoid, right? I'm reading too much into coincidence.
These are professionally published novels—they existed long before Nikolai decided I was interesting.
The similarities are just my mind trying to make patterns where none exist because I'm living in close quarters with someone who happens to share some traits with fictional heroes I find attractive.
That's all this is.
It has to be.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and stare out at the city spreading below. The late afternoon sun is painting everything in shades of gold and amber. Beautiful. Peaceful. Safe.
I'm safe here.
That's what matters, right? That I feel protected for the first time in five years. That I sleep without nightmares. That I wake up feeling rested instead of exhausted from fighting my own mind all night.
So what if the romance novels Nikolai bought me happen to feature heroes who remind me of him? So what if reading about Alexandre's possessive devotion makes my chest tight and my breathing shallow? So what if I'm starting to crave the fictional version of what I'm living in reality?
It doesn't mean anything except that I'm apparently attracted to exactly the kind of man I'm living with.
Which is probably another symptom of Stockholm syndrome or trauma bonding or whatever psychological term describes what happens when you start developing feelings for your captor.
Except Nikolai isn't my captor. Is he?
I can leave the penthouse. I go to classes. I have my own space and my own routine. He's never physically forced me to stay.
He's just made it very clear that staying with him is safer than any alternative. That he will protect me from everything the world might throw at me. That his possession of me is the only thing standing between me and destruction.
And I believe him.
Because he proved it. He burned down my nightmares and killed my monsters and came back just to watch me sleep in peace.
So maybe I'm not captive. Maybe I'm just... owned. Claimed. Possessed in a way that should feel violating but instead feels like safety.
I'm so fucked up.
I reach for the book again, intending to keep reading despite my unease, when I hear the sound of the penthouse door opening and closing. Footsteps in the hallway. Nikolai returning from wherever he's been for the last few hours.
My heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing lately. Like my body is excited to have him back in proximity even though my brain knows that's probably not healthy.
He appears in the doorway to the living room, and I watch as his emerald eyes scan the space until they land on me curled up in the window seat.
Something in his expression softens—not quite warmth, because I'm not sure he's capable of that, but something close.
Something that looks like satisfaction or possession or maybe both.
"Reading?" he asks, his lips forming the word clearly.
I nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the book in my lap. Like he might somehow know that I was just comparing him to fictional characters and finding the similarities disturbing.
He crosses the room with that fluid, controlled walk of his and settles into one of the large leather chairs positioned near the window seat.
The chair is massive—designed for his height and build—and he looks perfectly at home in it.
Like he belongs in expensive furniture the same way he belongs in expensive clothes and expensive spaces.
He's wearing charcoal trousers and a black button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. No tie. Top button undone. Hair slightly disheveled in that way that probably costs time to achieve but looks effortlessly perfect.
He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes tracking over my face like he's cataloging every detail. Then he does something unexpected.
He taps his thighs. Twice. A clear invitation.
My breath catches.
He wants me to sit on his lap.
I should say no. Should maintain some kind of boundary. Should not voluntarily climb onto the lap of the man who literally committed mass murder less than a week ago.
But that strange, heavy pull is there. The same one that made me crawl across the bed to press against his chest. The same one that makes me sleep better with his presence than without it. The same one that's been growing stronger every day I spend in this penthouse.
His body is the only place my trauma goes quiet.
The only place I don't feel like I'm constantly bracing for impact. The only place where my nervous system stops screaming danger and starts whispering safe.
And I'm so tired of fighting it.
I unfold myself from the window seat, the book still clutched in one hand, and cross the small distance to where he's sitting. He watches me approach with that terrible, patient intensity. Not moving. Not reaching for me. Just waiting for me to come to him of my own accord.
Always making me choose him. Never forcing. Just creating situations where choosing him is the only option that makes sense.
I hesitate when I reach the chair, suddenly uncertain about the logistics. But Nikolai just shifts slightly, adjusting his position to make space, and gestures again to his lap.
I climb up carefully, settling sideways across his thighs with my legs draped over one armrest. The position is surprisingly comfortable—he's solid beneath me, his thighs thick and muscular, providing a stable seat.
His arm comes around my waist immediately. Not tight. Not restrictive. Just... secure. Like he's making sure I won't fall. Like he's anchoring me to him.
And God, it feels good. Too good. His body heat seeps through the layers of clothing between us. His scent—expensive cologne and something darker underneath—surrounds me. The steady rhythm of his breathing is something I can feel through the points where we're touching.
My trauma is screaming that this is dangerous, that men touching me leads to pain, that I need to get away right now.
But underneath that scream is something quieter. Something that sounds like finally and safe and home.
Nikolai's other hand moves, his fingers gently taking the book from my grip. He examines the cover—shirtless man, woman pressed against him, the typical romance novel aesthetic—and something that might be amusement flickers across his face.
"What are you reading, Butterfly?" he asks, his lips forming the question clearly.
My hands move to sign, but it's awkward from this position. My left hand is partially trapped against his chest, my right one free but shaking slightly.
The book you gave me, I manage to sign with one hand. About Alexandre.
"Ah," he says, and I can hear the sound even through my hearing aids. A soft acknowledgment. "And are you enjoying it?"
I nod, because I am. Even with the disturbing similarities to him, the story itself is compelling.
"Show me where you are," he says, holding the book so I can see it.
I flip through until I find the page I was on.
It's... not a subtle scene. Alexandre has just cornered the heroine in his office, and he's telling her in explicit detail exactly what he wants to do to her.
What he's been fantasizing about. How he's going to take his time with her once she finally admits she wants him too.
My face heats as I point to the passage.
Nikolai's eyes scan the page, and something changes in his expression. Not quite a smile. Something darker. Something that makes my stomach flip.
He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so that his chin is resting on my shoulder. I can feel his breath against my neck, warm and steady.
And then he starts reading. Out loud. His voice low and deliberate, the words vibrating against my skin through the points where we're touching.
"'I've wanted you since the moment you walked into my life,'" he reads, and his French accent makes every word sound sinful.
"'Every night, I imagine what you'd look like in my bed.
How you'd sound when I make you forget every reason you have for keeping me at a distance.
How you'd taste when I finally put my mouth on you. '"
My breathing goes shallow. This is... this is a lot. Too much. The combination of his voice, his proximity, his arm around my waist, and the explicitly sexual content he's reading directly into my ear is overwhelming every sense I have.
"'I want to take my time with you,'" he continues, his voice dropping even lower. "'Hours. Days. However long it takes to make you understand that you belong to me. That every part of you—your mind, your body, your soul—is mine to worship and protect and possess.'"
Oh God.
I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies are touching. His thigh beneath me. His arm around my waist. His chest against my side. His chin on my shoulder. His breath on my neck.
I'm also acutely aware of something else. Something I haven't felt in... ever, maybe. A deep, low pull in my abdomen. Heat spreading through my body. My heart rate picking up for reasons that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with arousal.
Nikolai keeps reading, his voice steady and controlled, like he's not at all affected by the intensely sexual content or the fact that I'm practically vibrating with tension in his lap.
"'When you finally give yourself to me,'" he reads, "'I'm going to make sure you never forget who you belong to.
I'm going to mark you with my touch, my mouth, my body.
I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Make you mine so completely that the thought of another man touching you will be physically impossible. '"
My hands are shaking now. I can feel heat flooding my face, my neck, spreading down through my body. I'm wearing layers—an oversized t-shirt and cardigan over leggings—but suddenly it all feels too tight, too constricting.
And I'm hyper-aware of Nikolai's complete stillness. His control. The way he's holding me securely but not touching me anywhere beyond that one arm around my waist and the points where we're naturally pressed together.
He's deliberately not touching me anywhere else.
Not running his hands up my sides. Not sliding his palm up my thigh. Not doing any of the things Alexandre is describing doing to the heroine in the book.
He's just reading. Voice steady. Breathing controlled. Perfect discipline.
While I'm slowly coming apart.
"'I'll be gentle at first,'" he continues, and something about hearing these words in his voice—his accent, his tone—is doing things to me that reading them silently never did.
"'Because I know you're fragile. I know you've been hurt.
I know you need to be handled with care.
But eventually—when you're ready, when you're desperate, when you're begging me for more—I'll give you everything.
Every dark fantasy. Every possessive impulse.
Every ounce of the obsession I've been keeping carefully controlled. '"
I'm breathing too fast now. Shallow, rapid breaths that I can't seem to control. My hands curl into fists against my own legs, nails digging into my palms.
This is arousal. Full, undeniable, overwhelming arousal. The kind I've read about but never actually experienced because trauma killed that response five years ago.
Except it's not dead anymore.
It's awake and hungry and directed entirely at the man whose lap I'm sitting in while he reads explicit sexual content directly into my ear in that devastating French-accented voice.
Nikolai finishes the passage and closes the book with deliberate precision. Sets it aside on the small table next to the chair.
Then his chin moves from my shoulder, his face turning slightly so that his lips are maybe an inch from my ear.
"Your heart is racing, Butterfly," he murmurs, and I can feel the words more than hear them. "I can feel it through your back. Against my chest."
My hands move without conscious decision, signing against his chest where they're trapped: The men in these books... they remind me of you.
It's a confession I didn't mean to make. An admission of something I've been trying not to think about too directly.
Nikolai's arm tightens fractionally around my waist. Not restrictive. Just... acknowledging.
"Good men are boring, Butterfly," he says, his voice still that low, devastating murmur. "You belong with the villain who wins."
The words should probably offend me. Should probably make me pull away and demand to know what he means by that.
But they don't.
Because he's right.
I've spent five years being safe and careful and maintaining boundaries. Five years surviving. And I was lonely and afraid and exhausted every single day.
Now I'm living with a self-proclaimed villain who committed arson and murder to protect me, and I sleep through the night without nightmares.
Maybe I do belong with the villain.
Maybe that's the only way someone as damaged as me gets to have safety.
My body is still humming with arousal, every nerve ending hyper-aware of his proximity. I want... something. I don't even know what exactly. Just more. More contact. More touch. More of whatever it is that's making my body respond this way.
But Nikolai doesn't move. Doesn't shift his hand from my waist. Doesn't do anything except hold me securely while I struggle with feelings I don't know how to process.
He's starving me.
Deliberately. Methodically. Letting the sexual tension build until it's suffocating. Until I'm so desperate for his touch that I'll be the one to break. The one to beg. The one to ask for what I want instead of waiting for him to take it.
Because that's the game, isn't it? He's conditioning me to need him on every level—physical, emotional, mental. Making me crave his presence, his protection, his touch. But never giving me enough to satisfy the craving. Just enough to make me want more.
It's manipulation. Sophisticated, methodical, psychological manipulation.
And I can see it happening.
And I'm still sitting in his lap, pressed against his chest, wishing he would touch me more.
We sit like that for what feels like hours but is probably only twenty minutes. His arm around my waist. My body tense with arousal. The book sitting on the table like evidence of what just happened.
Finally, he speaks again. "You should eat dinner soon. You've been reading all day."
The casual shift in topic is jarring. Like we didn't just have an intensely charged moment where he read explicit sexual content to me while I sat in his lap.
But that's Nikolai. Perfect control. Perfect discipline. Perfect at making me feel things while he remains completely unaffected.
Except... is he unaffected?
I risk a glance at his face. His expression is calm, controlled, that pleasant mask he wears most of the time. But there's something in his eyes. Something that looks like hunger or possession or maybe both.
He feels it too. This pull between us. This growing obsession.
He's just better at controlling it.
My hands move to sign: I'm not very hungry.
"You need to eat anyway," he says firmly. "I'll order something."
He stands then, lifting me effortlessly as he does and setting me on my feet. The sudden absence of his touch feels like a loss. Like something essential was just taken away.
I watch as he crosses to where he left his phone, already pulling up whatever app he uses to order food that costs more per meal than I used to spend on groceries in a week.
And I'm left standing there, my body still humming with unfulfilled arousal, my mind spinning with confusion and desire and the growing certainty that I'm falling for the monster who burned down my past just to give me a future.
A future where I belong to him completely.
Where I'm his butterfly, pinned and displayed and kept safe in his collection.
And the most terrifying part is that I think I want that.
I think I want to be owned by the villain who wins.